


Non-Compliant and Always Underestimated (or Underestimating... Shut Up Scott)

by nina_rosa95



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alliances/Enemies, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anchors, BAMF Stiles, Banshee Lydia Martin, Beta Derek, Derek's a jerk while driving, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Hale Family Feels, I hate the Nemeton, Interspecies Relationship(s), Kidnapping, M/M, Memory Magic, Minor Character Death, Necromancy, Nemeton, Nightmares, Pack Dynamics, Panic Attacks, Protective Derek, Protective Scott, Protective Stiles, Rituals, Runes, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Bromance, Serial Killers, Sheriff Stilinski Knows, Stiles Has Scars, Torture, True Alpha Scott, Trust Issues, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:27:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 28
Words: 40,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1262860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nina_rosa95/pseuds/nina_rosa95
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He folds his arms under his head and nods at Derek as he approaches, claws extended. Stiles exhales deeply, eyes fixated on the tips of Derek's claws. "I'm ready."</p><p>Stiles doesn't tense under his touch like Derek thought he would. He doesn't whimper or writhe with aborted movements to get away from Derek's touch when he starts on the first leg of the Triskelion, the incision too shallow at first. He doesn't ball up his fists when Derek has to dig into the beginning of the first leg to split the sinew apart deeper than before.</p><p>His heart rate doesn't make alarming jumps and he never tells Derek to stop, not even when Derek digs his claws into the pale, vulnerable flesh of his stomach above his navel as he draws the second leg of the Triskelion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Things have changed ever since the reign of Peter, and the era of Sourwolf.

Scott, he got his act together and grew up (for the most part) pretty quickly after his and Allison's relationship went down the shitter. He's not perfect (but then again, Stiles doesn't believe in perfection because the world, his world, doesn't have such niceties. He might have said Lydia was perfect a couple of months back, before the Alphas and Jennifer/Julia, but he's seen the cracks- even if he still loves said cracks, because really, who isn't enamoured with Lydia?), but Scott's adapted, and he's accepted himself and his new species, which has made him stronger for it. If you asked Stiles what really gave Scott that final push in the right direction toward finally being okay with being a werewolf, toward accepting it, and embracing it enough to strain each and every of his cells to be the best he can achieve, he'd say it was when Scott's mom, Melissa, finally accepted Scott, furry ass, fangs and all.

Scott's better in a lot of ways now, he's more mature (being targeted by the supernatural and their respective hunters, nearly losing the people you love, and almost dying on more occasions than he can honestly remember, will do that to someone. You can either buck up, or regress to childish antics and suppress until everything that you're trying to ignore finally surfaces without your permission in a violent onslaught similar to Pandora's Box werewolf version 1.0); he's been able to hone his abilities (he can sniff out the difference between non-fat and 1% milk without looking now. He can tell you the some variations of emotions that people give off through their scent, like being able to tell what type of anger someone is experiencing [irritation, frustration, rage, etc.], instead of simply recognizing and categorizing a scent into one vague emotion); he's been working with Stiles and Deaton (sometimes Lydia) to see how magic affects him.

Stiles has been working with Scott to see what his limitations are so that the pack knows the safety boundaries for themselves, and for the times that it comes down to a supernatural warfare with hulking showdowns featured by new creatures to add to Stiles' growing bestiary (so far, they haven't found any evidence of the boogeyman, or boogeymen). But Scott isn't perfect. He's still new to the life of a werewolf, and the only born werewolf left in this supernatural shitstorm of a town is Peter. Stiles would rather saw off his own arm with a plastic spork covered in goop from a leprechaun's ass fungal ( _yes_ , it's a real thing, and _no_ , Stiles does not want to talk about it) than fall under Peter's guidance, and he damn well will saw off Scott's arm before they look to Peter as an advisor on all things hairy and rabies infested with decomposing rabbit breath.

At least they could have taken Derek's word with a grain of salt, but, Derek's no longer in Beacon Hills. No one knows where Derek went, not even Peter- or maybe it's especially Peter. 

Stiles would have had Peter's creepy ass arrested for the sexual harassment of minors (yeah, creepy stalking and vaguely directed double connotations have consequences, especially when preformed on minors) if said ass didn't turn into a very hairy and I-don't-want-to-know-anything-else-about-said-person's-ass each full moon, and testosterone or rage fueled episode of insanity. Fangs and claws will not harm his father (or his father's deputies) if Stiles has anything to do about it.

All-in-all, Peter is fairly unreliable, and any ounce of his so called help generally names him as the primary beneficiary. His advice either comes with a price, or it's a diluted version of cryptic truth that should be handled with care, referenced, cross checked, analyzed, debated amongst the pack, and repeat.

The Alpha twins, Aiden and Ethan, have hunkered down somewhere near Beacon Hills. Trying to form amicable ground between them and Scott's pack has been a slow moving, tentative task.

So it comes together like this: Stiles quietly keeps track of previously assumed sporadic murders; the Sheriff tells Scott's pack about murders committed in the same fashion moving from county to county, slowly gaining toward encroaching their territory; the pack surmises that the murders are the result of cult activity and preparation for some serious "Black" magic; Peter spews out a dramatic spiel about the murders being Windigo attacks; Stiles, as Scott's Second and the pack's detective, is sent out to investigate whether or not Peter's words hold any weight.

At first, Scott had vehemently refused to send Stiles out alone, protesting even when Stiles sputtered out indignant rebukes and Allison's saccharine words had applauded Stiles' capability to handle himself during a mission where, more than likely, there would be no available truths or substantial material evidence to corroborate Peter's theory, because there simply would not be any that existed in relation to the growing string of murders. It was Lydia whose words became the straw that broke the camel's back with a sigh that formed words vaguely reminiscent of how bringing werewolves to investigate a potential site(s) of a corrupt clan of witches' sacrifice could impede the information gathering because the werewolves can't read the intricate calligraphy that indicates hidden spells- it would be easier for the werewolves to fall prey to a trap.

Stiles is a charmer, it makes investigations like these so much easier, despite the pack relying on him to do the dirtier work of investigating because, by default (and an insulting amount of assumption) he's the most ordinary and average of the pack and can fly under the radar (a nice way of stating that he's on the low level of the totem pole when it comes to being flashy, attractive, and all-out wetting the undergarments with arousal desirable). Which, _ouch_ , because he's some delectable hot stuff. He can saunter into a place and turn a few heads, though those head turns are so discreet and freaking ninja-like that the average eye just doesn't notice it (it is too a head turn, shut up Scott. You were too busy looking at the ketchup that waitress spilt on the geriatric town pedophile. It hasn't been proven, but everyone knows it on some instinctual level. Stiles knows it. It's a feeling. From the gut. A gut feeling. He's usually right about that, unless it's just gas. Shut up, shit happens.). The drag queens even coo at him, telling him how perfect his bone structure is, how his skin is just that certain shade of alabaster that could rival the glow of a full moon (if only they knew what that certain compliment did to him; werewolf/supernatural nip? No thank you), and how his lips are an absolute divine temptation, sultry and plush- just demanding someone to make them swell and taint them with a bruising red; to be devoured in a swirl of passion. Candy says that his moles are 'very rebellious Madonna cheque'. Whatever that means. It's simple underestimations like this that cause trouble for people, and Stiles can't decide whether he's insulted by them, or thankful for them because it's allowed him to get out of a bad situation and survive by the skin of his teeth a handful of times too many.

So, of course, it's when Stiles decides to pick up crappy rations in some small, rundown convenience store beyond his pack's territory and umbrella of protection, that he sees the flare of blue and gold eyes. It makes him just as stupid as Jackson was when he broke up with Lydia (which happened more than once, so that " _was_ " really should be an " _is_ ". Stiles hopes, _prays_ , to every deity he can remember, that he never comes to be that damn brainless) that he has been caught underestimating this entire operation (when it's hardly begun, no less) when his literal capture blindsides him.

It's not his capture that has him reeling though. Instead, it's the voice on the other end of a phone one of the werewolves are using that catches the edges of his clarity as sounds roar in his ears, echoing and playing inside his head like it's some mausoleum where all sounds are explosive and repeat for decades. It's as the color and depth of his vision bleeds out and gives way to the unforgiving black of unconsciousness that he recognizes the last person he expected to encounter on his trip a few counties away from home. The registration of the owner of that voice weighs heavy in his mind as he drifts, unwilling but unable to stop the transition.

 _Derek Hale_ is the one thought that remains as his senses scatter and give way to the numb, prisoning chill of unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes, Stiles thinks, 'wolves can be very reckless when handling humans, especially with humans cloaked in the scent of a neighboring pack. He doesn't know if it's comforting that these Betas seem distressingly inexperienced in the capture-raid-disarm-bind portion of kidnapping a suspicious non-pack pack member, or if it speaks volumes about what they do to captured non-pack pack members in their territory. Going with either direction, there seems to be three potential reasons for the comforting weights in his pockets: a) he's such a minor threat that it just doesn't matter what type of explosives he may or may not be carrying around; b) they'll be trading out the kidnappers-captive routine to execute a newfound mercenaries-victim relationship in a short span of time; c) it's the pack's way of being hospitable and a show of good will in the presence of a potential ally by not confiscating his personal items.

He feels fucking insulted.

First, he can't tackle a mission on his own (which, Scott may have been right about all along; that "I told you so, Stiles" will burn like it's a goddamn brand on his ass later), then these twinkle toed, glowy eyed werewolves don't even deign to fight him, just knock him out like he's the typical town nuisance, and now they won't even confiscate what's weighing down his pockets or demobilize him. Does he have "helpless human" written on his forehead in some ink that only fucking werewolves can read? Because he swears that Isaac only drew a penis on his cheek that one time he fell asleep in Econ. Fucking Isaac. He's putting organic dog food in his strogenoff during the next pack movie marathon. 

While it's nice and dandy to feel the weight inside of his pockets anchoring him toward consciousness, it's doing just that- waking him up. The buzz of his mind kicking into overdrive coupled with the horrifying, pulsating headache verging into the migraine zone that he has (thank you, twinkle toed cavemen) is making it difficult to filter out his internal trauma so that he can hear what's going on around him.

His eyelids are still weighed down, heavy in the gradual process of gearing up to being a functioning, conscious human. The little specks of light that do warm the thin veils of his eyes are dull, but without the telling artificial orange that makes up electrical based lighting. The day must be encroaching toward dusk, by now, which means that Stiles has been ignorant to the workings of an eventful day for a handful hours too many.

As he wakes, the process slow and trying to an already thinned (potentially non-existent) patience, he works through the kinks and soreness that only tense and knotted muscles could bring. When the perusal of his body comes away with sporadic bruising, and an easily definable tenderness near his temple he allows himself a quick survey of holding room, surprised at the lack of life. He's slumped against one of the four white walls framing the room, the cement floor his lower half is sprawled across is cold and barren. There are skimpily sized horizontal windows guarded with enforced glass. To his left is a heavy, intimidating wooden door, sealing the room with its closed stance.

When a quick scan toward the higher corners of the room, and the edges of the windows reveals no obvious cameras Stiles draws himself up to his full height, his nimble fingers automatically reaching for the bag of ground minerals and herbs stuffed in his pocket. With the ease of experience the bag's lace tie is loosened, and the bag tipped into his cupped palm. He makes quick work of building a circle around himself, a cunning smile tugging the corners of his lips upwards as he finishes with the warmth of magick thrumming through his life blood and easing the chill of the room inside of his protective space. As he seals the bag and slips the black velvet piece back into his pocket his eyes drift upward towards the door. He takes a seat, his hand skirting across the fabric of his jean covered thigh before he removes a white cloth, tied closed by a coarse piece of thick twine from his pocket. He tugs a gem free from within the tied cloth, cupping the rose quartz with a grimy hand as he shoves the crudely tied cloth back into his pocket. With a sigh of exasperation he remains seated with the intention of a waiting for the local pack to appear within the confines of his holding room.

And that's precisely how the pack had found him, in one variation or another, slumped along the floor within his circle as the pad of his thumb rubbed rhythmically across the rose quartz, kept there in his grasp to ease the onslaught of his migraine (really, _thanks_ , twinkle toed cavemen).

The pack was small, at least, the portion that came in for a Stiles-filled visit was. Consisting of the twinkle toed pair, Derek, and a sturdy female Alpha paving the way. Met with the sight of Stiles' circle of minerals and herbs, the apathetic sprawl of limbs a la Stiles, and the blase scowl marring his otherwise indifferent expression must have tested some uncharted waters as the robust female leading the pack stopped a short distance from Stiles' protective seal, her stance rigid and her eyes flaring a crimson red. Definitely the Alpha, then.

With a wry grin Stiles sat up, noting from the edge of his peripheral vision the potentially concussion inducing eyeroll it elicited from Derek. Ever the melancholy Sourwolf. "You like? Personally, I think that it's much better than the standard mountain ash. Even a True Alpha can't break this bad boy, tried and tested. But, hey, knock yourselves out if you want to even try setting a claw or fang an inch near it, or anywhere near me. Seriously, _knock yourselves out_ , because I could go for a laugh or a goddamn written affidavit stating peace and love after you pricks decided to abduct and hold prisoner the member of a neighboring pack who has absolutely no quarrels with you furry assholes." Unyielding as the warning utterance of the subsonic growls of an Alpha steadily filled in the quick flash of silence, he looked toward the Betas of the pack before returning his firm gaze to the Alpha (nearly skipping over Derek entirely, his presence and involvement in this local pack an issue for another time), "maybe you should start with why the fuck I'm a prisoner to begin with."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter should explain a little more about Stiles' re-enforced version of rings of moutain ash. If not I'll add it into the Author's Notes.


	3. Chapter 3

The female Alpha, made of sun kissed skin painted in hues of deep set olive and matched with almond shaped opal eyes (when they weren't blinking furious red colors at Stiles), crouched lowly, her expression flickering from irritation to amusement. With a curl of her upper lip she pronounced with a vague whisper of a growl underlaying her words, "I hardly think that the cornered prey should make demands, especially when trespassing foreign territory." Her irises flashed a dull red, stance widening to accommodate the forward lean that came with the near voiceless hiss, "we want to know what you're doing invading another pack's territory, little wolf spy."

"At the time of abduction? Getting snacks. Evil snacks. I was going to lace them with wolfsbane and consume them myself. I love hallucinating and potentially overdosing on harmful flowers. It'll make my corpse smell nice when they ship it back to my Alpha. Everyone will get allergies and sneeze during my funeral. You just ruined my funeral."

"Little wolf spy, I will not ask many times, so I implore you to choose your words wisely." The Alpha's hand stopped an inch before the barrier, the pads of her fingers moving slowly as they grazed the concrete floor, trailing the outline of ground minerals and herbs as she held out her other hand in a wordless demand, closing it over a cylindrical item titled 'Clear Out'. "Your beliefs and your spark may keep us out, little wolf spy, but not this."

Stiles' eyes narrowed, head tilted to the side as he glanced at the potential contraband resting in the Alpha's hand, then back toward her with a quirked brow. With a look of bored offense he deadpanned, "your tear gas grenade exceeds the net weight of 2.5 ounces of aerosol spray. It's an illegal good." He plucks the crudely tied white cloth from his pocket, placing the piece of rose quartz into the makeshift bag as he shifts into a sitting position. He straightens his back as he tucks the bag away and wipes the grime off of his hands, rolling his shoulders as he speaks "you're not giving me any viable incentive to share secrets. In fact, I feel more motivated to walk outside, fuck a tree, and watch as my dick weeps over the splinters. I feel more motivated to willingly put _splinters_ in my _dick_."

His lips curve into an amused smirk; keeping his gaze leveled with the glowering Alpha he intones "why don't you have Thing One toss that Remington Tango I Series Boxed Civilian Clip Point Knife at me? In fact," Stiles' palms itch with the gathering moisture of sweat as he spreads his thighs further apart and stretches his crossed calves further to create a larger area bracketed by his legs, "I'll even make room for a mock hoop, just for you."

His tongue flicks along the salty expanse of skin along his upper lip, coming away with the taste of fear and anxiety induced sweat. His body warms, thrumming with life and an anxiety and doubt so tangible that he knows the werewolves can taste it almost as much as they can smell it. Even as he keeps his gaze steady and trained on the Alpha he nearly misses the imperceptible nod of assent she gives her Betas. His body freezes, his frame still and unmoving as his hands limply drape over his knees, wrists resting steadily where his thigh meets his knee; a great contrast to the tightly drawn muscles of his back coiled taunt with tension under the strain of minor distress, mistrust, and the fear of doubt as his heart gallops into a babbled frenzy of palpitations. A rush of sound fills his headspace, muffling his auditory perception of the external world as his blood circulates through his body with the heat and speed of an adrenaline rush; the survival instinct of fight or flight still uneasy to taper down and quell to calmness. It's not until he hears a distinct sharp hiss, and metal clanking against concrete that he relaxes, shifting back as the cool of relief settles over him. He glances meaningfully at the knife embedded into the wall to the left of himself, the blade a scorching red color, and averts his gaze back toward the Alpha.

"Imagine what it does to everything fang-filled and frothing at the mouth." He risks a glance toward Derek, unsurprised when met with a mask of impassivity and the film of caution layered over the guarded hazel of his eyes.

"The good doctor and I re-enforced the traditional boundaries." He counts off on his fingers, "salt, cumin burned with frankincense, juniper berries, nettles, sage, angelica root, agates, just to name a few. Salt as an additional base with the mountain ash, used to protect and cleanse. Both black and white agates to guard against physical dangers. Angelica to protect against negative energies while feeding its user positive energy, and to remove any spells, jinxes, or curses cast against the user. Cumin burned with frankincense to protect and ward off evil spirits. Each follows a similar pattern: protection, purification, warding off mal-intent and evil. It's been nurtured, ritualized upon, blessed, and complexly woven to prevent breakage under the duress of attacks."

Stiles grins at the female Alpha, defiantly jutting out his chin and locking his gaze with her scornful Alpha red eyes. "So, if we're done comparing our dicks let's have a real chit-chat. Your Betas didn't need to kidnap me so that you could ask why I'm loitering in your territory. Why am I here?"

"You've been keeping a close eye on and meandering around isolated areas where sites of murder have just recently occurred, little wolf spy. The same sites where magick hums through the soil; the same sites that are tainted with the distinct foul stench of decomposing corpses and rotted wood that follows necromancers. You're an unwanted spy of a pack without ties or alliance to my pack, intruding on my territory, meddling in and obstructing my pack's affairs. You're either a _rat_ sent to obtain information, or you're part of the cause behind these murders. A little wolf spy who can use magick, just the same as the nefarious presence stealing hearts." She slips closer, mouth cluttered with elongated canines, her voice guttural and heavy with a rumbling growl. "And when you break this barrier I will let the coyotes fight over your corpse, little wolf spy."


	4. Chapter 4

"Are you- yeah, okay, you are trying to tell me that necromancers are behind these murders. And," Stiles' gaze faltered, falling to Derek as disbelief flickered across his expression, "you think that I'm a necromancer." He turns his attention to the female Alpha on a sharp intake, betrayal running through his blood like the bitter bite of being plunged into frigid water. "Have you scented me? I mean, I know that I don't smell like peaches and daisies- except for that one time that Isaac and I were captured by nymphs while the pack was camping- but I don't smell like a fucking corpse or rotting wood. I've asked, and I've been told that I smell like grass, amber, the normal hormonal teenage musk, and green apples."

Derek's nostrils flared, the blazing blue of his wolf outlining the pupils of his hazel eyes. "You haven't been taking Adderall."

"I don't think that Adderall is the primary concern here," Stiles snapped, tone clipped and sharp as he glanced away from the Alpha female (no longer frothing at the mouth, good progress). 

One of the other Betas, broad and fair skinned with blond hair and leaf green eyes, paused in his slow pacing, expression flabbergasted. "Is he fucking stupid? Jesus, Emma, maybe his Alpha sent him here for those _things_ to kill him. I mean, who the fuck frequents murder sites unstable?"

"Hi, yeah, still right here. I'm not unstable, and, even if I was -which I'm not- I could still kick your wolfy ass and create really small daggers after I harvest your teeth." This time the corners of his lips don't even twitch when he receives an answering snarl for the insinuation that Twinkle Toes #2 has itty-bitty pup fangs. "Listen to my heartbeat, I'm not a necromancer. I'm not here under the guise of visiting a girlfriend-" he ignores the snort of derision "-to obtain information on your pack. I wasn't sent by my pack, or of my own volition, to act as a grade F for Fail spy."

Emma, the female Alpha, leaned back on her haunches, her wary expression full of fatigued exasperation. "Then what, little wolf spy, are you here for?"

Stiles purses his lips, a sigh billowing from his nose as he regards the foreign wolf pack with guarded scrutiny. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, blunt teeth nibbling anxiously on the flesh and soothing the angry red swell with his tongue. "I was sent by my pack to investigate the series of murders that have been moving from county to county. I've been keeping track of these murders from the time that the first body was reported near the borderlines of California and Nevada. Three months ago the body of a young girl, aged ten years, was discovered with her chest torn to shreds by what appeared to be a large predator. It didn't occur to the lead investigators until later that while her assailant had left her lungs, portions of broken ribs, and trails of intestines strewn across the site of attack, her heart wasn't accounted for. So far, the killer strikes during full, first quarter, new, and third quarter moons. There are enough inconsistencies to throw a human detective who has no knowledge of the supernatural away from this pattern, but," Stiles shakes his head and runs and hand through his shorn hair, "around twenty people have been killed so far, and those are just the ones that have been discovered. Two murder sites are located in this county, and it's steadily making its way toward my pack's territory. I'd like to at least know what this thing is before it hits us." His gaze skirts towards Derek, his tone casual and indifferent as he speaks, "our pack appreciates being well informed."

When Stiles' gaze is returned to Emma he is only slightly surprised to see the reserved calculation painted on her expression as she too glances at Derek. Angling her body closer to Stiles she scowls, eyebrows furrowed and her loosely closed fists resting knuckle-to-knuckle. "Why would your pack send a magick user?"

"Their pack is still young and naive." Derek's voice is gruff and seemingly strident in such stifling silence.

"You're right," Stiles' smirk is layered with bitterness and irony, his lively eyes now giving way to the wearisome and jaded, tainted with small doses of cynicism in a way that only experience can bring upon. "We've done more good than bad, but we've been too trusting in the past. A past which keeps coming up with you. A past, and a pack that you abandoned." Stiles' upper lip curls back, baring his teeth in a very wolfish manner that he must have picked up from his pack, his eyes bright and trained on Derek.

"No one would have blamed you for leaving, Derek, but you ran. You ran and you abandoned everyone without so much as a face-to-face goodbye. Instead, you texted Scott, told him you were leaving, like everyone else didn't matter. Which, fucking fine, we _hate_ each other, we don't even really trust each other, but we've saved each other's respective asses out there enough to deserve some form of communication instead of nothing but flat static and late reports of your leave from Scott." Stiles stands, back rigid with tension and his neck flushed with anger. "You fled like a damn mutt with their tail tucked between their legs like we were some screwed up version of animal control looking to put you down! I've had fish that have stayed with me longer than you have!"

He looks towards Derek's new Alpha, Emma, and breaks the seal with his foot. "Unless you have information on the murders, we're done here."

The warning flash of red in Emma's eyes don't even evoke an elevated heartbeat from Stiles; her growl is background noise, the theme song to his daily life and nothing more at this point. "What makes you think that you're leaving, little wolf spy?"

Stiles' harbors a hard, impassive mask as an expression when he keeps her gaze leveled with his own secretive and determined look. "I have fail-safes set up for episodes such as these. You've already made me miss one window, the second will cause a riot in the form of my pack hunting your asses down. If you harm me, or if you kill me, you'll be starting a pack war." His eyes narrow, he tilts his head with a foreboding smirk. "I don't have much experience with foresight, that's more of Lydia's-or even the good doctor's- expertise, but I don't think that a war would work very well for your pack right now- all four of you."

He's pleasantly surprised when Emma arches a well kempt eyebrow and asks if he's kidnapped often. He blinks several times, eyes sore and begging to be rubbed even though it'll only irritate them further. The wicked grin that spreads across his face makes his cheeks ache and flush, his eyes bright as he replies, "you wouldn't believe what creatures want a piece of this. I'll never forget when the four head sloth proposed to me while eating the head of the village children it was native to. While it was preparing to cook me." He pauses, smile falling and expression sobering. "You asked why my pack would send a magick user here, it's because we suspected that the murderers were an active clan of corrupt witches ritualistically sacrificing people and stealing their hearts in preparation for "Black" magick. Taking a werewolf would be too risky in that situation."

"But you had your doubts, what else did you believe it could be?" 

Stiles glances at Derek, hesitation coloring his words, "another source thought it might be a Windigo." Stiles doesn't know how Derek doesn't get whiplash, or at least vertigo (werewolves get that, right? Stiles needs to remember to ask Scott) from the way his gaze snaps toward Stiles. He doesn't need to be told, or given any other cues to know that Derek and him will be running into each other shortly after he leaves. He nods at Emma, and isn't surprised when the Twinkle Toed Twins don't see him on his way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept thinking of the closing scene of S3/18 when writing the beginning. Like: are you threatening us?
> 
>  
> 
> ..erm..no. Uh, no. Not at all.


	5. Chapter 5

It took one ring, before the call was answered. He didn't get one word in edgewise before Scott's voice was filling up the statically silence. 

"What happened?! You didn't answer your phone, Stiles! It's been hours!"

"You won't believe who I ran into, Scotty-boy."

"What the hell are you talking about, Stiles? You broke the agreement to talk to some _girl_? Are you kidding me?"

"Well, I wouldn't exactly call them a girl. I mean, I don't think that they're a girl. They might be a girl, underneath all that manpain, and the patent facial hair covered scowl. I think that I would have known if they were a girl, Scott. There's a distinct lack of breasts. I think I would have noticed breasts, considering that they're basically allergic to wearing shirts."

"Wait, Stiles- hold on," there was a pause and the sound of shuffling feet, "Stiles, what the hell are you talking about? Who did you run into?"

"Derek. I ran into fucking Derek, Scott. He's here, with a new pack. They, damnit, they _kidnapped_ me. I mean, they kind of sucked at kidnapping me, but there's a pack here. Why didn't we know about the pack here?"

"They did what?! Stiles, where are you? Are you hurt?"

"Other than a few bruises, no, I'm not hurt. I said they sucked at kidnapping. Besides, you know that I bruise like a ripe banana and bleed like a juicy watermelon does when it's being cut up for some sick, fruit-lover's pleasure. Pay attention Scott! There's a pack out here. I just invaded their fucking territory without the Alpha's consent, and without you formally meeting her. I don't know if we've just broken some sort of secret lycanthrop law! I mean, if I was just passing by it would probably be a different story, but I'm here specifically on pack business, Scott!"

"I told you that you shouldn't go alone, Stiles! Damnit, I knew I was right!"

"Are you kidding me, Scott? Do you even hear yourself? A human member of a foreign pack invading their territory is bad enough, a human and werewolf of a foreign pack would mean attack now, question later. Especially with Derek in the pack. You know how he works, kill now, cover up later, ask questions never."

"He's really joined a pack out there?"

"Not the point, Scott! Jesus, so what if it's Derek. We don't matter to him, and I'm not going to waste my time trying to get inside his head to play therapist to get him to come back to Beacon Hills. He left for a reason. Besides, he hates me; my breath is his own personal plague, he hates me that much. You should have seen," Stiles cuts himself off with a huff, "his Alpha accused me of either being a spy sent by you to gather information on her pack, or being one of the mystery murderers. Derek just fucking stood there, Scott. He fucking stood there and told her that our pack is young and naive while she condemned and demonized me."

Stiles took a deep breath, his heart beating fast and his skin flushed with anger. He paced around the dingy motel room he paid for (because Stiles has a job, and he can damn well be responsible enough to pay for things instead of asking his Dad for money). 

"I knew he hated me, Scott, but I didn't know that things were so extreme that he'd just stand there while his Alpha accused me of being a necromancer. I mean, a spy I could understand, but Derek knows that I don't have any history even tying me to knowing a necromancer. Unless you count Lydia. But, that's totally different, Scott. Totally, completely different. I mean, Scott, dude, even when his Alpha told me how expendable I would be when she fed me to the coyotes, he just stood there like someone had told him that it's sunny outside."

"I'm coming over there."

"Damnit, Scott! No you are not! You keep your wolfy ass in Beacon Hills, or I swear on my Marvel t-shirt that I will fucking tie you down with wolfsbane infused rope while you're sleeping, and wax your balls. Slowly."

"Stiles, comeon man! You can't seriously expect me to stay here when another pack is threatening you outside of our territory! What does that say about our pack, Stiles? It says that we're weak, and that you _are_ expendable."

"And if you don't come it shows that we're not trying to cause conflict, or threaten their pack, or steal their territory. They're jittery and paranoid enough with me and the murderers here, Scott. If you send someone else it's going to cause an uproar. No one will come out on top if we start a pack war, except for the murderer, because they'll be slipping right through our defenses. We'll only be putting Beacon Hills in danger if you send someone else."

"Fuck! I can't believe that I agreed to let you go over there, Stiles! I don't like it, I don't like it at all."

"Yeah, you and me both buddy. I'm expecting Mama McCall's homemade chili and cornbread when I get back."

"I'll let her know that you're volunteering her for cooking duty."

"Worth it. Even if I get a lecture via voicemail. Still worth it."

"Stiles?"

"Yeah, buddy?"

"What are you going to do about Derek?"

Stiles breathes out a soft sigh, halting his pacing to lie prone on the bed. "I don't know, Scott. It depends on what happens. I won't hesitate to use force against him, if that's what you're asking. And, if it comes down to it, I will kill him." His tongue darts out, laving at the corner of his mouth before he gnaws on his bottom lip. "For what it's worth, I really don't want to kill him. I don't like the guy, but I don't want to kill him either. I don't want to kill anyone, Scott."

"Why would you need to kill someone Stiles? Is there something you're not telling me?"

"I don't know. I just," he rubs his face tiredly and flips onto his back, "it just seems like something is off. Like something is wrong here, Scott." 

There was enough of a pause to make Stiles wonder if either of them had accidently hung up the phone on the other before Scott replied.

"Be careful, Stiles. Don't hesitate to call."

"I don't think that I'll need to-"

"-Stiles!"

"-but, I'll call if I'm in trouble. Or I'll miss two windows, in which case, the whole pack can come howling my rescue to the moon."

"We don't howl at the moon, Stiles."

"No. You just scream at the moon."

"Bro code! You promised to not bring that up!"

"No, I nodded when you told me to never bring it up. I just acknowledged your demand." He started when a series of swift and booming knocks resounded from his door. "I've gotta go Scotty, someone's at my door."

"Who is it?"

"From the violent knocks, I'd say it's Sourwolf with a sword stuck permanently up his ass. If I don't text you our safeword within a few hours set the 'wolves free."

"Stiles-!"

"Later, buddy!" 

Stiles set his phone on the bed, a glare fixed on the door in front of him as it shivered under the weight of one perpetually pissed off and broody werewolf. He could swear that sharp noise was the door splintering. 

"Fuck! I'm coming! Knock it off already; you'll wake the neighbors!" 

He's not sure what he expected when he opened the door, but a raised eyebrow and mocking "safeword?" wasn't it.


	6. Chapter 6

"Seriously? Out of everything that you could have said, everything that you could have used against me, you picked repeating a word. I swear, you're the only species I've run into that has regressed to your Neanderthal state." Stiles stepped aside, holding the door open and pointedly raising his eyebrows at Derek. "You have five seconds to get in here before I slam the door in your face and lay down some mountain ash."

"You're waking your neighbors, Stiles."

Five. Five words. It takes five words to piss Stiles off, the footsteps Derek takes inside of his motel room are just the trickle of accelerant on top of an already blazing fire. 

He didn't slam the door like he wanted to. He calmly closed the door, swiping his thumb across the wood as he idly thought about placing a seal over the door and windows.

"Why are you here, Derek?" There are no other words; no sarcasm or baiting; no stalling. There's nothing to reap from talking to Derek like he used to. He's never listened, and Stiles has stopped trying, and, not long after that, he stopped hoping.

There's no use with Derek, not after Jennifer (Julia? Darach?); not after the Alpha pack; not after Peter killed and mutilated Derek's Alpha, destroying the last remaining ties of lucid family that Derek knew he had. But, maybe, it didn't start there, just like it won't end there. Stiles thinks it all started with Kate Argent. Almost everything, every fuck up in Stiles', Scott's, and their pack's lives can be traced right back to Kate Argent.

But that doesn't mean that Stiles is going to pity Derek. It doesn't mean that Derek's way of handling things, or his behavior towards Stiles, is acceptable. That's not to say that Derek doesn't take responsibility for his actions, that he doesn't feel shame, regret, self-hatred, or remorse (Stiles wouldn't know what the stoic brute feels- if he feels- or thinks. Re: Stiles is not his therapist).

Tracking a flash of movement that had caught his attention from the edge of his peripheral vision, Stiles finds Derek standing at the center of the room, arms crossed tightly across his chest and back ramrod straight. He seems uncomfortable, his back facing a sheet of pure wall, giving him the opportunity to face both the exit/entrance door and the bathroom door, despite his ability to hear the possibility of Stiles setting up an ambush (not that he would, though Derek is right to be on edge). 

The only thing that ran through Stiles' mind directly after he acknowledged Derek's state of discomfort was: _good_. So maybe Derek's not the only asshole.

"Peter thinks the murderer is a Windigo."

"Your use of inflection and your skills of inquiry astound me, Sourwolf. Really, I'm speechless." Okay, maybe he still uses some sarcasm. Derek's still the asshole here.

He gets a raised brow and a flash of Derek's Beta blue eyes for his snark. It equates most appropriately with party trick like pulling a rabbit out of a hat, by now. Flashing eyes, spit-shiny fangs, overzealous growls with spittle, and awkward sprouts of hair are Stiles' version of child's play and routine warm-ups.

Sometimes Stiles wonders what his mother would think of him, of his future. With her in mind he forces his body to relax, his stance to loosen. He keeps the best memory he has of her- blurring more and more as time passes, even with photos, and Stiles feels sick thinking that maybe he'll have to rely on those pictures to know her face one day- at the forefront of his mind; it makes it easier to breathe through the anger, the still too raw betrayal and the hurt.

"Peter's a narcissistic sociopath who attacked about half of Scott's pack. I trust you more than I trust him, which, is funny, because there's a distinct lack of trust here," Stiles motions between them, "from both sides. I trust you about as far as I can throw you, and I trust him even less." His lips are pursed, a sigh exhaled through his nose when clasps his hands together, positioning them at his front as he rubs warmth into his hands. "But, he's also astute- cryptic, but astute- and if there's a real threat like a Windigo heading for Beacon Hills he'd cover his ass with insurance, a back up plan, and a security line." 

Stiles' eyebrows furrow, a deep frown sets in. "It doesn't add up, though. Windigos don't have a pattern like this. They aren't meticulous, it's not in their nature- especially if they're feeding frequently. They become even more feral and insatiable with each feeding, because they grow in proportion to the meals they consume. In other words, it will never be satisfied, and it's aggression increases with each feeding. It constantly searches for new victims, and the only thing it consumes is human flesh, Derek. It just doesn't add up. Why would a Windigo kill specifically to steal a heart, and leave a fresh carcass behind? It's against their nature.

"Your Alpha, she mentioned that the murder sites smell like decomposing corpses and rotted wood. Windigos are humanoid creatures that stand at about fifteen feet high. They're gaunt with icy and matted fur, and they have translucent skin. They have serrated fangs, and no lips. Their hearts are ice, and they're indigenous to forests and caves. A Windigo would be easily spotted, especially in a city. They can't lure they're prey like other predators could in cities, or densely populated areas. There is no way a hunter, even a new hunter, wouldn't have noticed someone almost immediately following that person's transformation into a Windigo in their area. 

"It's all too controlled. Windigos are the embodiment of carnage, gluttony, greed, and excess." He chews on fleshy pad of his thumb, his opposite hand grasping his elbow. His eyes are downcast, eyebrows drawn together as he scowls. "The pack, we thought it might have been corrupt witches, "Black" magick and rituals and shit. Peter thinks it's a Windigo. Your pack says necromancer." 

He looks at Derek, tone solemn. "Either way, it's bad news. Two out of three cases rules that it's more than one individual involved in these murders. It's not just a matter of _what_ is behind these cases, but what these murders are for. What do they need the hearts for?" 

Stiles shakes his head, groaning out a breathy "fuck".

"There were traces of magick at the sites where the bodies were found, Stiles."

Stiles straightens up, head snapping toward Derek, lips parted in surprise. "Say that again." He ignores the mutinous scowl sent his way as he takes a step closer to Derek. "Say that again, Derek."

"There were traces of magick at the crime scenes."

"No. No, you said at the sites where the bodies were _found_. Fuck," Stiles laughs bitterly and rubs the heel of his chilled palms against his eyes. "No wonder I didn't catch an accurate trail." He continues when he catches the disgruntled roll of Derek's eyes (how he doesn't strain something with his drama queen persona, Stiles doesn't know), and the impatient huff of Derek's breath. 

"The murder sites are in a smaller patch of the woods. The tree line has less density, less coverage, and the forest floor is malleable and soft from the rains in the earlier weeks. There were imprints in the soil, footsteps from the victims, but they aren't right. If you took the victims' weight and their gait into context the footsteps should be less evenly distributed, portions of mud should be flung around on the trail, and the imprints should be deeper or more shallow in some areas.

"From what I understand, the victims didn't frequent the woods. In fact, they stayed away from the woods. Derek, it's not the real murder site."

Stiles runs his fingers through his hair, left to grow over the past few weeks instead of having a head of shorn hair. Derek's question is the same one plaguing his mind, ricocheting off the walls of his cranium and ghosting over his brain on repeat.

"Why would someone move the bodies and create a fake crime scene?"

"That's what I'm going to find out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out differently from what I had originally thought the chapter would look like. 
> 
> I started writing with the intention of angst, a verbal spat, some not-so-nice words and potential storming off.
> 
> My fingers betrayed me when they started typing.


	7. Chapter 7

Derek was still in Stiles' motel room. His glare was making Stiles itch with the urge to move and just _do something_. 

Derek was right, Stiles hasn't been taking his Adderall, but, he hasn't needed it after Deaton had taught him the wonders of meditation to organize his mind, bringing with it a calm and balance that he's missed in the past few days. It helps that he's almost always doing something, too. He still takes his Adderall from time-to-time, usually only in emergency situations. He has a feeling that he may use a couple doses during his stay in this town.

"You should leave. You're going to get yourself killed." Derek's words are so casual, so monotone and indifferent. It was the straw that broke the camel's back.

"I'm not going to run away, Derek. I don't have the luxury cowards can afford. Not with my pack in danger." Stiles' mannerisms are wolfish when he bares his teeth, upper lip curled back as he lets loose something that sounds frighteningly like an actual growl. "Besides, you and your pack seem to be the only things inclined to actually try to kill me this week."

Derek has the audacity to flinch and look taken aback, his lips twisted in some hybrid of a pursed scowl paired with his patent twin furrowed eyebrows of fury and near eviscerating glare (that Stiles is immune to, by now). Stiles doesn't know if he could care less about what Derek's reaction is indicative of. 

He hopes that Derek is full of tumultuous self-reproach and guilt, because while Derek's threatened to rip out Stiles' throat (with his teeth), and has inflicted bodily harm on him (no threats or warnings for those, apparently), he's never stood back in silent agreement as someone threatens to end Stiles' life. He's never been one to corner Stiles with a pack and sincerley inform him of his impending demise. It's never been serious, not enough to make Stiles honestly wary of Derek and afraid of saving his hide from Derek.

Up until this point he's never genuinely thought that Derek would participate in the act of killing him.

Derek's expression was cold and closed off. His stance widened to accommodate the rigid alignment of his spine, subconsciously demonstrating the breadth of his strong and solid frame. It's simultaneously an intimidation tactic and a move designed for self-comfort through building resistance and guards.

"You're interfering with another pack's affairs."

Stiles doesn't comment on Derek saying "another" instead of "my".

"Affairs? You guys keep using that word. "Affairs" implies that you have possession over an event, that you're involved and you have some semblance of control over the event." Stiles takes a step back from Derek, slowly and stealthily plucking each bag from his pocket. "What's going on here, Derek?"

"Stiles, leave. Listen to me, for once." Derek uncrosses his arms and makes to move forward.

Behind his back, Stiles works the string ties loose. He takes a pinch of his and Deaton's version of mountain ash, and grasps a piece of clear quartz, knowing by touch which crystal to snatch.

"I'm listening, just not following."

It happens quickly after that. 

Derek's jaw clenches, his shoulder's halted mid-roll. His eyes flash a furious blue and his upper body leans forward. His nostrils flare and his scowl shifts, the slight and tell-tale bulge of fangs descending obvious to Stiles.

Stiles presses the sharpest point of the quartz into the thumb pinching his mineral blend, bringing his hand forward when the padded flesh of his thumb gives way, coating the minerals and the crystal in blood. 

Derek's just barely beginning to take a step forward when Stiles' wrist flicks out in a quick movement, the bloodied and mineral coated crystal shattering between them to form a wall of gneiss. The crystal wall curves to form a barrier around Stiles, its form iridescent as it sparkles with the grains of Stiles' mineral blend.

The stunned look on Derek's face makes the blood dripping from his thumb, and the pulsating, swelling puncture wound worth it. Stiles doesn't know whether it's sheer shock at how evolved he has had to become in these past few months- how his speed and his capability have both improved- or at the simple act itself.

Their roles are reversed as Stiles stares passed the crystal barrier, eyes cold and devoid of emotion when his gaze locks onto Derek.

"I don't know what sort of game you're playing here, Derek, but it's over."

The conflicted expression and the clear frustration written in Derek's features surprise Stiles. It makes the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up as if something cold and made of static had just passed over the nape of his neck. He watches Derek warily, palms moist with sweat.

"I'm trying to help you, Stiles!" His words come out guttural, voice grating as it cuts off into a harsh, sonorous growl.

Derek's eyes are still Beta blue, his fangs no longer descended (as if he had caught his partial transformation a little too late, something that only happens when Derek's under duress, or distressed beyond logical comprehension, relying purely on instinct). His body is taunt, shoulders obviously tight with tension. 

"Damnit, Stiles!" He hisses, his tone gruff. The fervent blaze of his eyes borderline desperate, like he has to hurry. As if something is about to happen. His eyes are glazed over, and if Stiles is honest, he looks a little feral and a lot more frightening than Stiles has ever seen Derek.

"Derek, what the _fuck_ is going on?"

Derek's eyes are nearly wild when they focus on him. "I can smell rotting corpses."


	8. Chapter 8

Stiles' breath came out choppy, the air stuttering passed his dry lips as his tracea rhythmically clenched. His chest felt tight, and there was a vague sensation of vertigo as his balance was further displaced.

Everything felt too slow, like his mind wasn't processing things quite as effectively as it should. In the background he could just barely make out Derek calling him an idiot. 

"-wouldn't you mask your scent?" Derek sounded almost as pissed off as he looked. The incensed blaze of his eyes, jaw set and veins bulging. He looked livid enough that Stiles might worry about the physical reprecussions that could manifest in the form of jeopardizing his health, if Stiles hadn't felt oddly numb and if Derek weren't a werewolf (and Derek _might_ be the enemy, so it's okay if he kills himself with stupidly high blood pressure. It's ironic, that something so human is what could lead to Derek's, to Stiles', and to Scott's pack's death even though they risk their lives each and every moment they breathe by simply participating in this deadly supernatural warfare.)

"What? Why should I mask my scent? Jesus, I don't smell that bad, Derek. At least I remember to put on deodorant, unlike Scott."

Derek's muttering, and Stiles only catches the tail end of his self-taught caveman-esque speech. Only the words "thought it was just" and "it's following you" are registered.

"Derek! Use your words! I know that you're allergic to speech, but is it too much to ask your wolfy ass to risk anaphylactic shock to clue me in here?"

Derek's glaring again, but it's okay, because now they're in familiar territory. He's huffing out breaths like he's just run the entire perimeter of Beacon Hills. It's not until Stiles notices that Derek's hulking shoulders are just barely shaking that he realizes that Derek's on the cusp of controlling his shift. 

Something must be very, very wrong here.

Derek's always been the one with stellar control over his transformation (even when he wanted to rip Kate to shreds). He exercises caution over his ability to control his transformation, even when he's being reckless, and even though his anchor used to be anger (might still be, Stiles isn't sure). He's contradictory, reckless, and majority of the time he runs into something ass first and head last, but, he's always had control- probably hasn't truly lost it since he was a child.

"The stench of death has been underlying your scent since you've been here, Stiles! I thought that it might be because you've been stupidly hanging around those murder sites."

Derek's fangs descended midway through his explanation. "It's been following you, tracking you down and stalking you." It was hard to distinguish Derek's words when they were filled to the brim with the deep rumbling of his growl.

"Well, is it actually here? Right now?"

"That's your question?" Derek's " _are you fucking serious?_ " and " _you're an idiot, Stiles_ " was implied and emphasized with his eyebrows.

Stiles motioned with his hands, jerkily nodding his head and avoiding looking at the blood he's just inadvertently spattered across his gneiss barrier. His doe eyes are wide and his eyebrows move in a spasmodic dance up and down his forehead. " **Yes**!"

If the situation were different Stiles would laugh at the twitch in Derek's eye, the sporadic clench of his jaw, and quiver of his lips (as if he's restraining himself from trying to actually tear Stiles' throat out with his teeth). Even with it being a big _if_ , it almost isn't enough to dissuade Stiles from making a snarky comment and texting Scott a picture with the details.

But Stiles has been in enough life or death situations to adopt some restraint. He's been thrown into too much mayhem to become maudlin, discouraged, hysterical, or easily panicked when in this type of position. Instead, Stiles' perspective of the world has become a little rough around the edges (not enough to change him entirely, but enough to incite him to take more precautions and adopt a wariness of others- more than the Sheriff's son already had).

He's different in the way he holds himself, in the confidence he has in his pack and in himself. He's stronger now, but it hasn't come without a price. He has his scars, his vulnerabilities. He has enough physical scars that he won't take off his shirt in front of Lydia, Allison maybe, but definitely not Lydia. The scars that remain unseen on his exterior are the worst, though. 

Stiles has paranoia, especially at night, and especially when away from his pack. If someone looks at him for too long when he's heading home or to his temporary chambers he'll travel in the opposite direction and move in circles until he's sure that no one is following or watching him.

He has vivid night terrors and has to set up crystals and runes when he sleeps. The crystals keep him calm enough to get a few hours of sleep, while the runes act as an alarm system if anyone tries to enter the house (he used to lay down the mineral blend, but one day there was an emergency and the pack couldn't get in to warn him). He uses another rune to keep his Dad from hearing the physical repercussions of his night terrors; it keeps his screaming from waking up his Dad after long back-to-back shifts at the station.

There are times where he's hypersensitive- that's when his vigilance is in its most extreme state. It'll happen at school from time-to-time and send him flying down the halls until he's sprawled on the floor of an empty and locked bathroom, adrenaline coursing through his veins, heart over working itself, and sweat moistening his skin as heat eats away at him.

He's stronger in his capabilities, his trust a solid foundation for the bonds he shares with his pack mates. He's confident in his skills and his judgement, the same follows through when he views his pack. He's learned to desensitize himself in situations that call for it (he doesn't like doing it too often though, because prolonged use and exposure makes it hard to turn it off, especially in personal atmospheres. It's too easy to get caught up in that state, too easy to lose yourself), mostly, he just favors his rational side and uses logic to lead his judgement. 

There have been too many times in the past where the pack had gotten too emotional and invested in a situation, and it came back to bite them in the ass when a civilian lost their life, or a pack member was critically injured- usually a werewolf, but one time it was Stiles that took the fall; that left him with one of the harsher scars and weeks worth of stay in the hospital.

The pack received a strongly worded lecture for that from one fiery Melissa McCall.

Derek's nostrils flared as he replied with a terse, "I don't know."

"What the hell do you mean by " _I don't know_ ", Derek?! Use your werewolf powers!" At Derek's glare he tacked on, "of doom! Of course they're not just normal powers. I mean, a Windigo would probably laugh at that, like 'bitch, please', but not yours. Nope. You're totally 'ha, that's cute. I'll kill you, with my _teeth_.'" 

At Derek's signature " _shut up, Stiles_ " expression he mashed his lips together and held a fist up to his mouth, his other hand cupping his bent elbow. He's still a nervous talker. He doesn't care what his pack says, it's adorable. He motioned with the hand that was cupping his elbow in the universal "go on".

"No, Stiles, I don't know. Windigos' hearts don't beat, and even if they did, like necromancers and witches do, I wouldn't be able to tell, because you chose the most populated motel in the city!" His words were low spat out like venom.

So the dilemma became: a) trust Derek and break his barrier to work with Derek; b) trust Derek and don't break his barrier, potentially leaving Derek the victim of a blitz attack and/or Derek's death; c) don't trust Derek and don't break his barrier. The obvious self-preservation methods being choice b and c.

He dug the nail of his pointer finger into the dried clot of his injured thumb, an indifferent expression settling over his features as fresh blood rushes passed the surface of his skin. He swipes his bloodied thumb along the gneiss and watches the barrier melt away until it's nothing but it's original state of clear quartz that needs to be run under water.

He pockets the quartz, placing it in its proper bag as he makes calm strides toward a hidden backpack. He pulls a handgun out of the backpack and lays three magazines out on his bed, alongside it he places two grenades and one canister of tear gas (when he places that down he gives Derek a small smirk). He pulls out twin blades then simultaneously shrugs off his jacket and his favored outerlayer of plaid. 

Stiles gives a long-suffering sigh that sounds out of character from the Stiles that Derek remembers."Turn away."

The arch of Derek's eyebrows is equate to a "I don't think so" and a "nice try" in Stiles' dictionary fondly dubbed: Understanding Sourwolf's Eyebrows of Doom.

Stiles shrugs, his nimble fingers gripping the hem of his shirt. "You had your chance." The first thing Stiles picks up when his shirts are discarded and laid out on the bed is the handgun, but Derek's eyes aren't tracking his movements anymore. Instead, Derek's looking at the raised scars decorating the alabaster of Stiles' skin. The six-pointed scars that rake up the vulnerable skin of his belly and widen in diameter when it crosses to the left side of his chest. The circular formation of jagged pricks that must have once been serrated teeth in the meat of Stiles' right shoulder, the left portion of his upper back, and at his right hip near his navel. There's a mesh of skin at his lower back that had to have been caused by bursts of fire. There are small areas of his skin where the pigments have changed, as if someone had taken a cattle prod and continuously jabbed him with it.

Stiles looks like he's narrowly escaped death by the skin of his teeth after being held prisoner at some camp where active members get their rocks off on torturing others. He looks like a pain slave, and the fact that this much has happened to the boy in a matter of months, months that Derek has been gone, stuns Derek. It's like pouring iced water on him before placing clipped wires in his hand.

He may not care for Stiles, but he would never wish this kind of life on the boy either. Not after everything that he and the others of Scott's pack have gone through. Before the Kanima he wouldn't have blinked twice, now, it's hard to drag his eyes away and truthfully say that he has the same perspective of Stiles.

He's not sure what to think, and he almost wishes that this was discovered at another time (or never) so that he'd have time to accurately register and absorb this, but he's grateful for the reprieve of not having the time to ponder on those scars that mar Stiles' body. He'll more than happily comply with keeping his so called stoical persona.

Stiles takes one of the twin knives in his free hand and brings it to his mouth, his tongue quickly laving it until it's slick and shinning with his saliva. He brings it down to cut a small, thin incision in the skin of his left calf and mumbles a soft chant as he brings the gun to his calf, parallel to the incision. His back tenses and his words stutter as he inhales sharply when the gun slowly disappears until it's nothing but an image on his calf, the incision gone as if it had never been made.

"Fuck, I always forget how much that shit hurts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little taste of what Stiles has learned to do.


	9. Chapter 9

Stiles stood upright, shaking his left leg out before making his way into the adjoined bathroom and returning with a hand towel provided by the motel. He wiped the blade clean, nonchalantly tossing the hand towel over his shoulder as he licked the blade.

He cut into his forearm next, putting a magazine in each forearm with a soft hiss. 

Stiles held up the last magazine, eyes focused on Derek. "Here's a little friendly-"

"We're not friends."

"-frienemy, then, educational heads-up. You don't want to get shot by these. You don't want to get shot in general, but definitely not with these bullets. It's important that you understand the gravity here, Derek, because these bullets aren't like Chris' and Allison's. They will kill you, and it will be excruciating if you're shot anywhere other than your head, or your heart. There is a cure, but not one that I can give you if we're in the middle of a battle for our lives, which is just about the only time I use these.

"They're loaded with wolfsbane, nightshade, cinnabar- which is an ore of mercury- and shards of basilisk fangs. Which, yes, basilisks are real. I didn't think that they were actually real, but J.K. Rowling writes some pretty badass lore. Though, Harry Potter was wrong. They don't understand the HP version of Parseltongue. We tried. Actually, I tried. Lydia laughed and Peter lost the bet."

"You expect me to believe that the pack killed a basilisk, and you harvested its fangs." The intimidating arch of Derek's eyebrow was the only hint that his statement wasn't actually rhetorical.

"No. I don't expect anything from you. Not anymore."

There was a lengthy pause as Stiles began the process of re-treating his blade. "Then why are you doing this?" 

There was a caution there that Stiles wasn't sure he liked. He didn't trust Derek, but he did want Derek to trust him.

"I don't want to sit around if the murderer is here. I'd rather be prepared and deal with the situation, because this," Stiles motions toward the exit/entrance door, "is something that I can deal with."

It wasn't until Stiles turned, his back arching as he placed the last magazine near the small of his back that Derek noticed smaller, more indistinguishable changes in the boy's skin.

Behind Stiles' eyelids were small glimmers of white light. At first Derek thought that Stiles' eyes might be glowing behind his eyelids, but Stiles hadn't closed his eyes. When Derek took a step closer to get a better look Stiles straightened up, muscles coiled like a snake ready to strike. 

Derek hadn't seen Stiles reach for the blade, and reluctantly- he'd only admit this to himself, never out loud, and _never_ to Stiles- he felt a sliver of respect for the boy when he found himself eye-to-blade.

Derek nearly rips his own throat out in frustrated disgust at the self-admittance when Stiles states: "If you take one more step every babe will weep in fear at your approach, every woman will cry "dear God, what is that thing?" when I'm through with you, Derek."

Stiles thinks that Derek's scowl could literally use 'the force' to kill people. It looks murderous enough without being paired with the Eyebrows of Doom, and cold Beta blue eyes.

"Your eyelids are glowing."

"Was that a question? It didn't sound like a question. Thanks, Captain Obvious on ship Oblivious sailing the Sea of Knowledge." Before Derek can strain something (like his brain) with another dramatic, full-bodied eyeroll Stiles continues with an explanation.

"It was either this, or slicing myself open and drawing runes in my blood each time I need them; or carving my skin; or infusing my blood with ink and getting runes tattooed all over my body." He shrugs, pulling the blade back to clean it before he re-polishes it with his saliva. "So Deaton, Lydia, an Elder Mage, and I followed through with a well-hidden, and very painful tradition."

Stiles eyes dull with a light layer of film that tells Derek he's recollecting the past.

"The Elder Mage burned almost every damn rune in creation into my body with his magic. Deaton and Lydia participated in creating a barrier and chanting. Their belief was like fuel to the ritual. When the Elder Mage was done, he dragged the runes, gathered them and put them in specific areas of my body so that I wouldn't look like I was a fucking Christmas tree whenever I used them. It's behind my eyelids, at my pulsepoints, behind my ears, and clustered near my heart. It helps to protect those points when I'm at my weakest- when all I can do is breathe through everything and try to stay awake."

Stiles nods his head minutely and makes quick work of placing the grenades- one at each hip. Though, Stiles doesn't hiss or groan, doesn't make any noise other than the soft chanting, Derek can smell the scent of his pain filling the room.It makes him wonder just how high his pain tolerance has had to become in the past few months for him to work through this without whining like he thought Stiles would. 

He's no longer disgusted or frustrated when he feels the sensation of respect fill his mind.

When Stiles lifts the tear gas he looks at Derek and shakes the canister. "It's not what you probably think." He runs his nimble fingers up and down the metal container and bites his bottom lip, debating if he's making a mistake by telling Derek all of these things. Even though the damage is done there's still that small portion of him that feels like he's betraying his pack by talking about the weapons, by exposing his scars and showing Derek some of the tricks he's picked up (though, he's not doing it to show off, he's doing it all for logical reasons). There's still that part of him that's unsure if Derek will betray him, that doesn't know if making these efforts to trust Derek will come back to bite him in the ass.

He hates being conflicted, and that's exactly how he feels right now, because he _wants_ to trust Derek. He wants to trust Derek because of what they've gone through together (even if he doesn't forgive Derek for some shitty mistakes that he's made, like running and not telling the pack, not looking back or talking to them about it, because he refuses to let people help him. He doesn't know that Stiles understands what it's like to feel weak and hate yourself for it, to feel like everything around you is crumbling and everyone you love dies simply because you have an attachment to them. He doesn't understand that Stiles hates asking for help too, and that as much as he hates Derek, he really doesn't at the same, infuriating time). 

He wants to trust Derek because he needs someone in this town that he can trust and rely on to a certain degree. He needs that grounding familiarity to keep him from looking at everyone and seeing an enemy in them.

"What is it then?" Derek sounds impatient now. Stiles must have in subspace for too long.

"It's acid infused with wolfsbane and nightshade. It'll melt someone's skin right off, supernatural or otherwise. Has enough poison in it to be lethal, if I want it to be."

He puts that one at his neck, and Derek can't hold back a cringe this time, especially because as it goes in Derek can smell the burning of Stiles skin and the thick bursts of pain that curdle his scent.

Derek doesn't expect Stiles to keep going, thought that the canister was the last of it, but he watches as Stiles takes two bags out of his pockets- he remembers Stiles using them when George and Ivan took him- and places them at his ankles. He watches the twin blades melt into images at both of Stiles' ribcage.

It's not until Stiles has his shirts back on and a similar handgun as before clipped to his belt that he rolls his shoulders and heads for the exit/entrance door.

It's just a little too late that Derek follows Stiles, eyes hazy when he enters the unnatural fog that surrounds the hallway. He doesn't notice that he's swaying and that his limbs feel too heavy and slow moving until he sees Stiles' limp form sprawled out a feet ahead of him.

He croaks out a scratchy "fuck" before everything is spinning and fading to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So..that happened.
> 
> I read all of your comments (especially FrznTears!!), and they all made my day. =] Thank you very much for reading, for the kudos, and for commenting!


	10. Chapter 10

It wasn't that Stiles was pissed at Derek, he was just a little upset with him and their current situation. Or, a lot upset with him. But, what werewolf can't sense danger, or at least warn Stiles about the damn fog that was probably created by corrupt witches (Stiles knew Peter was full of shit when he said Windigo).

Stiles doesn't like being knocked out. In fact, Stiles hates being knocked out, especially by the enemy. It almost always means kidnap, torture, more scars, and saving himself (not that Stiles doesn't appreciate being able to save himself; he doesn't enjoy relying on others to save him just because the baddies all have some sick perversion for making Stiles a damsel in distress).

And that's precisely where they're at right now, inside a ring of mountain ash, each of them have an ankle shackled to the floor (with only a foot's worth of wiggle room given to them by the chain connecting the shackle on their ankle to a metal ring on the floor).

Stiles doesn't understand why the coven's feeble-minded grunts used wolfsbane coated metal for both him and Derek. 

"Fucking sadistic _bitches_! Using mountain ash to try to contain me! Are you fucking serious right now?" Stiles hisses, tugging violently at the chain, jaw clenched and teeth grinding together. Derek waits until the scent of Stiles' blood is permeating the air, until he hears the slick gurgle and tear of skin ripping before he grabs Stiles by the back of his neck and yanks him away until he's sitting side-by-side with Derek.

"Have anything for this scenario, genius?" There's a stinging harmony in the bite of sarcasm and underlying mocking hum to Derek's words.

"Not one that I'm going to use. It'll be our last resort, if things get bad enough." 

Stiles doesn't elaborate when he receives the infamous Hale Eyebrow Arch (of Doom). Instead, he settles back until the chain is nearly taunt and forces himself to relax. His eyes sweep across what must have once been a lively animal shelter (the irony isn't lost on him). They're at the back where dogs used to be kept, if the large kennels are anything to go by.

Stiles doesn't know the structure of this place, but in every animal shelter that he's been to the dog kennels were toward the back of the buildings, and there's no telling how large this place is, or if it has any adjoining buildings. 

Stiles doesn't even know if they're in the same city anymore, and he must have missed at least one window by now. He's not sure if that's really such a good thing, because with Derek gone too it could look bad. It could look like a feud between packs. Emma and Scott won't have primary voices of reason to keep the peace settled enough for a calm and logic-driven conversation between Alphas (especially not with Derek having been associated with Scott's pack, and Stiles being a member of Scott's pack when he trespassed on Emma's territory- no doubt she'll feel threatened). 

He loves his pack mates, but he's not sure if they would be able to tread carefully enough to navigate out of dangerous waters with Emma, especially because he's not sure how close Derek is to her, or how important he is to her. If he had to trust anyone with this situation, though, he would honestly be able to say that he could trust only his pack.

The corners of his lips dip downward in frustration at the realization that he used to view Derek as some hybrid of pack-enemy-ally, and he still harbors some sense of alliance and pack-relation with the older man. 

Usually when Stiles is kidnapped he's the lone hostage. There is no one else. There are no safety lines there to cling to when he's being tortured for information (or for fun), or questions of trust and allegiance. There are no conflicting thoughts or emotions, just sarcasm and sharp, wicked, bloodied smirks that he throws back in his kidnappers' faces. He doesn't have to worry about anyone else, doesn't have to protect them. 

Even though Stiles and Derek loathe each other, Stiles knows, even on an explicitly aware and fully conscious level, that he doesn't want these fuckers to torture Derek, or use Derek as some tool in their self-destructive rituals. Stiles is too well aware of how hard he'll try to keep Derek from harm, because, hate him as he may, Derek's been through enough shit (and Stiles sort of, inadvertently dragged him into this potluck of danger).

There's been late nights where sleep evades Stiles' reach and battles are fresh in his mind. Those nights are like poison to his thoughts, they kill off his hatred for Derek, numb it for the night as he lies awake on his familiar and comfortable bed thinking of the older werewolf (Scott is the first to enter his mind, then Lydia, his Dad, Allison, Isaac, Deaton, and it continues until all that's left count off is Derek). He thinks about how much he hates himself for his unfiltered words about the burned out husk of the Hale house. He thinks about how lively, full, rich in sound, colors and warmth it must have been, and how much agony Derek must be going through each day and night that he tries to find solace in it while breathing in the scent of his murdered and burned family. 

Stiles can't smell his mother's perfume without chocking up, and there Derek is, breathing in the stale scent of death, agony, ash, despair, fear, ash, panic, the cooking skin of his family and pack, and more fucking ash from the fire. He stays in that house where he used to play with his siblings and gripe at his mother, and all that's left now are the phantom screams of his family and pack.

Stiles doesn't doubt that Derek heard the exact moment that each member died. The moment their screaming stopped, the choking gasps stilled, and their hearts could no longer beat. The moment everything he knew and loved was turned to ash and put in the dirt while he could do nothing to save them.

It's like the universe uses Derek as their favorite piece of irony and their favorite pin cushion all at the same moment, because it wasn't enough that almost everything was taken from him in one fell swoop. The woman he thought he loved (or, perhaps Derek had truly loved Kate) snatched his heart with her toxic talons and laughed at his blind trust and naive love while turning her back on him, leaving a trail of matches and accelerant behind.

There's no doubt in Stiles' mind that Derek doesn't let himself grieve, that he hates himself and blames all of his families murders (including Laura) on himself. That breaks Stiles' hatred down, reduces him to tears until he promises to be a better person and fails to do so when dawn hits Beacon Hills and his tears have dried to burning and itchy tracks down his blotchy face.

He doesn't know how Derek survives with all the destructive weight he carries inside of himself, especially when he sees Derek push people away. Stiles doesn't know if Derek pushes people away because he's afraid of getting attached to them and then losing them (which, he would no doubt blame himself for their death), if Derek thinks that he doesn't deserve any patch of happiness that a friend or a committed pack could bring him, or if Derek just doesn't trust people enough to let them in anymore.

Derek's life always seems to spiral, like the curls of his triskelion tattoo. Every time he seems to be getting some semblance of footing he's knocked right back down. There was Kate; then Peter (and, if Stiles is honest, Scott should be next for decieving and manipulating Derek when Gerard came into the picture); the Argents seem to have an affinity for their distrust in Derek and their inclination to maim him (and Stiles can't really blame Allison's temporary desire to kill Derek, because she was manipulated too. No one told her the full story, she was given pieces and used as Gerard's puppet, her mother's death the only thing stimulating and motivating her. Stiles would want to kill Derek too, if he were convinced that Derek was the reason his mother was dead); then Erica and Boyd left (before they discovered their capture, Erica's death, and the Alpha Twins used Derek's claws to kill Boyd); and in came the Alpha pack and Jennifer/Julia/the Darach. The list continues, and yet, Derek keeps trying to gain some footing.

Stiles has some respect for Derek. He respects Derek's willpower, his control, his self-sacrificing and selfless nature (because there are times that Derek does things that would astound people, if they were paying close enough attention. For instance, Derek will sacrifice himself as a distraction so that others can leave a battle alive or unscathed). Most of all, Stiles respects and admires Derek's perseverance, even if Derek has some big downfalls by way of decision making.

Stiles isn't so sure that Derek's perseverance is out of a will to live, a need to better himself and repent for some heinous crime (likely, the blame and hatred he encumbers himself with in relation to the murders of his family and pack), or if it's self-imposed torture to keep living. It might even one of his long lasting, vicious "fuck you"s to Kate that he's not trying to kill himself, or allowing someone else to kill him.

Stiles won't tell Derek that he respects and admires him for some of his attributes. He won't tell Derek that he doesn't mind his company as much as he bitches about it. And if Derek can sense any of that, he never brings it up. Even with these thoughts kept secret and hidden inside the safety of his mind, Stiles still dislikes Derek. Their personalities clash, full of combustion and headstrong antics when they're around each other. He and Derek grate at each other's patience and nerves. They have an unhealthy relationship full of aggression, a tug-a-war of "I'm right", and an imbalance of power that didn't bother Stiles so much as the concept of not _asking_ for something versus _demanding_ something (it does help a little that the playing fields are almost even. Maybe if Derek becomes an Alpha of a strong pack they'll really even out, though).

When Derek mutters out a "do you have a plan?" Stiles nearly jerks. He hopes that Derek doesn't notice, but his chain has rattled a little and he knows that his heartbeat spiked with the zing of adrenaline he received. He didn't notice it earlier, but he's shaking and the temperature hasn't risen enough to bring sufficient enough heat to stop his shivering (he won't use the runes for warming up, he won't use them at all until an opportune moment strikes for a surprise attack). He knows that Derek must have noticed all of this, probably before him too. 

He's not sure if the low voice Derek spoke in was consideration for him, or if it's because Derek's not really one to be obstreperous or raucous, or if there's someone around that could potentially be within hearing distance. Stiles should ask Derek if he can hear anyone.

Stiles leans closer toward Derek, shoulders tensed as he represses a shudder at the heat radiating from Derek's body, and whispers, "yes and no. We need to see who they are, get an idea of what they are, how strong they are, and how many of there are here. We need to try to get information, like where we are, if there are traps around here, and what they want to do to us. We can't escape without knowing at least some of that." 

He pauses to breath, intending to continue on to ask Derek about what he can hear- if he can hear anything- and is surprised when Derek speaks, sounding more like he's acknowledging something than making real commentary to Stiles.

"You've been kidnapped too many times."

"You have too. None of us have normal lives, Derek. Once is too many times. For us, it's almost normal to be kidnapped or attacked at least once a month. It's in the fine print." Stiles' lips quirk upward, he cranes his neck so that he can actually face Derek instead of the empty rows of rusty kennels ahead of them. "What can you hear?"

"Three in the building, one pacing while guarding, another guarding, and the last moving things around on the other side of the building. There were five earlier and-" Derek cuts himself off, lips thinned into a scowl, eyebrows furrowed and eyes dark with contempt.

"What is it?" Stiles' skin feels itchy with perspiration. His hands are clammy and slick with sweat and specks of dried blood. His palms feel rough, blisters already formed from his exertions with the chain earlier. The skin around his ankle is torn and bruised, coagulated blood making his sock spongy.

"There was something else moving with them. No heartbeat."

"And we've got a coven of corrupt witches using a Windigo. Of course. Can't be some nice pixies planning a fucking surprise party for us for keeping them safe. This is some cock'-and-bull'."

Fucking _Peter_.


	11. Chapter 11

"Still plan on waiting for more information?" Derek's speech was more like a harsh hiss through clenched teeth. 

Stiles' biting answer dies in his throat when his hand twitches reflexively, the urge to help soothe and use his runes to heal is like second nature after so many unyeilding battles of wanton savagery created by the ruthless and eager members of the supernatural- usually consisting more of those verging more on deranged than lucidity. 

Stiles remembers a time months back when Scott took on a direct attack from a Centaur that was initially meant for Isaac. He remembers the sting of his eyes and the tightness of his chest when his breaths turned ragged and harsh with his struggle to keep his composure as he peeled Scott's diaphram away from his bruise darkening chest. Scott was battered and his midsection was flayed open by the horns of the Centaur. Stiles can recall with the ease of clarity the vicious fear that strangled him, the rage and the panic so thick that it felt like he was swallowing dry bones, but, no emotion was stronger than the need to fix.

Before that month it had been scratches and the odd animal here and there that he would practice his healing techniques on. Post-Centaur Stiles learned to use his runes and his focus to mend what werewolf (or human) healing was too slow to fix without killing or severely damaging his pack bretheren of victim-soldiers. He soothed his pack mates, and the entire pack grew stronger with him.

He proved himself in the eyes of his pack mates that there was no longer any creedance to the theory of him being the weak link. There was no room for doubt or speculation of his position and his capabilities. 

It was the first time that Stiles felt the whole pack accept him and view him as their equal, and that might have been because it was the first time that Stiles himself had felt that he was equal to them, that he deserved his place in Scott's pack, especially as his Second.

It was difficult to clamp down the urge to heal someone like Derek, where the lines were blurred and unsure between pack-ally-enemy. It would be easier if he and Derek could just hate each other and move on; if they could amp up the aggression factor and spend these moments while in unwilling captivity snarling at each other and attempting to maim the other.

It's always been weird and unsure with Derek. The lines between ally and enemy muddled together in a clash of leather, blood, raised voices and hurt. It's their adaptation on tangoing, a dance of violence, an aftertaste of regret, blood-hot anger, and hurt. They move to the beat of pain, limps snapping back and forth aggressively. A hint of safety, reliance, vague tendrils of trust, and grudging respect going unnoticed when despondency flavors the air. 

It's easy to hate, especially when both parties are so driven to follow the instinct given to them by their environments. They grew with the urge to flee, protect themselves and cage the vulnerabilities of emotion, thought, and memory when confronted by someone who could sneak passed the barriers they've taken years to build in an effort to protect themselves from others. It's so easy for them to snap and bite, rather than accept and open themselves up to the possibility of a safety that's created by depending on the other person.

It's easier to breed hatred than to commit to the unknown after years of knowing pain, betrayal, loss, and fierce anger.

It's those reasons that apply to Stiles' indecision on whether or not to leave Derek to his pain, to let the wolfsbane coated along their shackles burn at the skin on Derek's ankle. Their lines are too distorted, and there's too much strife between them. Stiles doesn't know what's welcome and what's not, by either of them. Their boundaries are as unclear as their lines between pack-ally-enemy.

Stiles chews on his lower lip as he debates this, regret coloring his mind with sour pigments and painting his tongue with a thick and pungent bitterness, because he's only enabling the torture that Derek's given if he allows it to continue. 

Derek would probably do the same for him. Maybe. 

It doesn't matter, though, because when Stiles reaches out with the intention to put his runes into action, "screw it" on the tip of his tongue, the squealing of old and uncared for hinges screams out with the click of light footsteps following shortly after.

He can feel the tension rising in Derek, can feel his own heartbeat starting to tick up with the small licks of adrenaline pumping through his systems. Instead of straightening up and painting on a smartass smirk like he usually would, Stiles bumps his shoulder against Derek, muttering a low "don't fuck this up, Sourwolf."

The woman that stops in front of them is unlike the image that Stiles' imagination conjured up. She looks so normal, civil and gentle that it's hard to believe she's one of five concocting serial murders to quench her desire for the hearts of innocent civilians that are completely unrelated to the supernatural. The hair on the back of Stiles' neck stands at attention, goosebumps littering the nape of his neck and his limps as he imagines this young woman with deep blue eyes and full red lips holding the heart of a girl too young to know the pain of middle school or the ferocious joy of love beyond that of family and friends. 

He looks at the volumptous brunet with a curvy form and polished, treated nails, and all he can think of is that little girl found on the borders of California and Nevada. He sees a killer, and he has to swallow down the intense swirls of rage and disgust before he says something that'll get him and Derek in deeper trouble.

He plasters on a fake smile, thinks of Lydia in her bathing suit to bring a flush to his cheeks, and bites his lip with a practiced precision that translates to smoldering on his expression. He has control over his features, and he hopes that he plays this right, because he has his doubts about how Derek will react. He arches an eyebrow, throws in a smirk as he huffs softly and leans back into a lazy slouch.

He wants her to think that he's easy, that he's slow moving and new enough to the supernatural world that his abilities are all kinds of laughter inducing low.

Her voice is light and almost melodic when she speaks. "Your pet is cute, young blood. I'm surprised that you've not taken him as a familiar, kept him mindless and urged him to cull your enemies. Keep him docile until you need a rampant fuck."

It's that last sentence that nearly causes his facade to crumble.


	12. Chapter 12

Stiles offers a wicked smile, eyes bright with false amusement. "Why, on dear Hecate's legacy, would I want a familiar?"

There was a gradual build of tension, it worked it's way through Stiles' body in a wave. His neck froze up as his tendons pulled taunt and his veins pulsed a little closer to the surface of his skin. His shoulders broadened with the strain of his rising suspicion that perhaps he was still underestimating the game here. 

Her lips curled, slow and gradual into a vicious smile pulled together by the sharp corners of her tightly streched lips. "Even with a strong pack your kind needs an anchor just as much as the wolf-pet next to you, young blood. A tie can bridge the distance between restriction and control. You won't have to worry much more about restraint, young blood. I can see the fear eating at your aura." 

She leans forward, a soft chortle blowing passed her unpleasant smile. "I knew your great-grandfather, young blood. He was just like you, stubborn and full of wild and naive ideas that he could use his little spells without tying himself to a familar. When he realized that his power was making him crazy, overflowing and painful where it was trapped inside his body, he begged us to find him an alternative." 

Her grin hitched higher on her face, eyes sharp with an insidious chill. Stiles' breath stuttered, back ramrod straight and expression dour.

"So we did, by killing his wife and feeding him her heart."

Stiles leans backwards, lays his head on Derek's thigh and raises an unamused eyebrow. "Are you done with your super villan rant yet? You turned my great-grandfather into a Windigo and you're using him as a weapon. Can we come up with some new material? In fact, why don't you come back with him so that I can meet my grandpappy?" 

His basic survival instincts were screaming at him, clawing at his limbs when he turned his back to her, his eyes cold and indifferent even as they focused on the hem of Derek's grey henley. 

He didn't move until Derek placed a hand on his rigid shoulder, the familiar sound of Derek's growl filling his ears. He didn't offer a reaction to the low hiss of Derek's words when he bitingly mocked Stiles' earlier statement: "don't fuck this up."

It took twenty-seven breaths before he lifted his gaze to Derek, the skin around his eyes tight with repressed anger. It seemed slow when his attention left Derek in favor of watching his right hand, craddled between their bodies, uncurl. Small rivulets of blood dribbled through the creases between his fingers. The beds of his nails were painted rust with dried blood, the tips sanguine with wet blood.

With a sharp intake of breath he brings his gaze back up to Derek, the rims of his eyes red and irritated even with the absence of tears. His voice is hoarse and low when he mutters "I'm going to kill her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's super short, but hopefully the content picks up some of the slack.


	13. Chapter 13

From the time that Stiles has met Derek he's never been the boisterous or loquacious type. Maybe Derek was different before Kate Argent. Maybe he changed during the beginning of his youth, after Paige, or maybe it all started with Kate.

Kate's like a poison to all of them. Kate, even beyond her death, seemed to cause the blackest of stains and the bleakest of wounds in his pack's lives and most especially in Derek's life. She was a parasite that ate away at the good and the bright joy of people's lives. She was the only person that Stiles has ever considered a real _monster_. She's the one that people should warn their children about, that monster that children should look in their closets and under their beds for.

So it's odd when Stiles notices the tightness around Derek's eyes, like he's struggling to form his words. He looks like he's trying to swallow passed a knife. 

"Stiles, we can't save your great-grandfather."

"I know. We're going to kill him."

He knows, even with the near indistinguishable tells that are in Derek's reaction, that he's surprised him. He knows that Derek hardly has an inkling of how different he is, how he's had to adapt to become stronger for his pack and himself. He's had to make these calls and take on some coarse thought patterns in order to stay alive.

"What are you going to do, sprinkle some of your ash on him Stiles? He's a Windigo."

"No. I'm going to do the only good that I can for him. I'll kill him quickly. He doesn't have control anymore, Derek. I'm not even sure that he has a soul. It's just a body that's forced to kill over and over again. It's not him anymore. It's an it, a Windigo that's under the thrall of the witches. I'll do what I can to make it quick, but I'm not under any misconceptions that I'll be able to trap and save him."

"Then what are we still waiting for?"

"We can't just kill everyone. There could be others under a thrall. There could be hostages. There could be people that need saving Derek, and we're the only ones that are capable of doing that for them." 

He turns to Derek, expression set and indifferent. "I would hope that someone would do the same for either of us if we were in the same position. We're no better than Gerard or Kate if we just kill them all mindlessly. You're not like her, and neither am I. We're not monsters, Derek. I don't care what other people think of us, because I know that we're not monsters even if we are creatures of myth. We do all that we can to survive and save as many people as we can in critical situations.

"Scott told me what you said, about how your mother told you that just because you're a predator doesn't make you a killer. The color of your eyes doesn't change that, and neither does this situation."

He turns away from Derek and looks at the mountain ash. "It's not infused with our blood. I can break it, if I want to." He leans back into a slouch and frowns, the conflict obvious in his eyes as hesitation skates across his features. He looks back at Derek, a little less guarded this time.

"I'm not sure what to do here. They know of me, but I'm not sure how much they know, how much they know about my abilities. I don't know if they're testing me with this set-up here, and when the time comes and I don't attack with all I have I'm afraid that it'll be seen as hesitation or an easy kill. One mistake and I'm dead, or worse Derek. Both of us are.

"Death isn't what scares me, though. It's what comes after it. What will they do with my body? Will they animate it and use me as a conduite? What will they do to you, and to both of our packs? What about all of the innocents out there that they will turn into victims and corpses?"

His eyes are wide and his hands curled tightly, heartbeat picking up. "Fuck! I didn't text Scott before we left, Derek." He runs his hands through his hair, pulling at the short strands of touseled brown before scrubbing at his face with a mirthless laugh.

"Goddess help us." He looks at Derek, the skin under his eyes darker than just a few short moments ago, and age beyond his physical years showing through his eyes. "You know it looks like we ran and started a war, right? Scott and the pack are going to come here, and I don't know what they're going to find when they get to my motel room. The witches could have set up a scene with our blood and tossed furnature around to make it look like a struggle. Emma's not going to react well, and neither is Scott."

His fists clench, fresh blood smearing across his fingers and slicking the friction between nails and skin. "They're starting a pack war, Derek. Fuck, they're smart, and we're so screwed here. I think we're in over our heads."


	14. Chapter 14

"If you can break the line of mountain ash, why aren't we free yet? We could reach the packs, if you're so worried about a pack war."

They were both laying on their backs now, faces upturned toward the decaying ceiling. 

"We could, but we don't know the layout of this place, where it is, or if there are any adjoining buildings. There could be hidden runes set up in the hallways- which,  I'm okay with. I mean, _I_ can see them, you can't. If you wanna try and end up blowing up your wolfy tail, then sure, you can be my amusement."

"Are you always this paranoid and afraid?"

Derek cocks his head and raises an eyebrow (of Doom) like he's questioning Stiles' integrity and trying to see what he's made of by dissecting him with his eyes. 

Stiles' shoulders are rigid when be flies into a semi-sitting position. His eyes are wide, disbelief and fury written across his features in broad strokes. 

"Excuse me?! Paranoid, fine, yeah. I'm paranoid. I'd rather be paranoid and cautious than dead. Fuck you too, hypocrite. Fear?" He leans toward Derek, neck hovering just above Derek's mouth. "What's that smell like to your fur coated ass? Hn? Let me guess, and if I'm wrong," he shrugs, a careless faux of a frown forming as his voice deepens and drops to a whisper, "you can rip my throat out with your _teeth_."

He takes the tension in Derek's jaw (he can practically hear those teeth cracking. Stiles should ask Scott if werewolf healing applies to teeth), the furrow of his eyebrows, and the flicker of Beta blue in his narrowed eyes as encouragement to continue. 

"You can smell anxiety," he pauses, keeping his eyes locked on Derek's for confirmation, "stress," the blue in his eyes are receding, "fatigue," his palms start to sweat, "anger," he steadies himself by placing one palm by Derek's shoulder and one on his own knee. "Sadness and loss," his tongue peeks out, laving at his bottom lip quickly, "excitement," he quirks an eyebrow at Derek, the silent _shut up, keep your judgmental eyebrows down_ clear. 

He waits seven heartbeats before whispering, "and a hint of arousal." Stiles' lips curl into a smirk at the renewed, impetuous flash of Derek's Beta blue eyes. He shifts, pulling away with a huff of laughter, a "chill dude, I'm a teenager, hormones are bound to go up and down," on the tip of his tongue when he feels the tell tale pricks of claws at the nape of his neck. Goosebumps litter his skin, traveling like a wave down his body. He shivers, the fine hairs on his limbs and neck standing tall. He doesn't become limps and relaxed like he knows he should, instead he freezes, body tensing and the muscles in his thighs spasming. His breath stutters before hitching with the uptick of his heartbeat, skin flushing as excitement and adrenaline flood his body. 

"Fuck!" He forces his body to fall lax when Derek's growl rings like a fire alarm in his ears- he's so used to distinguishing a warning from the usual " _shut up, Stiles_ " that it's no longer applied on a conscious level. He mutters into the fabric of Derek's henley, "screw you."

 "I should rip your throat out with my teeth right now." his grip tightens around the nape of Stiles' neck, the tips of his claws unrelenting as they bore down spitefully, cleaving at his skin without penetrating through the superficial layers. He squeezes the back of Stiles' neck with the skin of his palm before hissing, "you smell like you're in a brothel."

"I'm a teenager who's developed  a danger kink, what do you think is going to happen? You think it's just going to stay down forever? Not all dogs sit and lie down like they're told, Derek." He jerks into a sitting position, hands flailing toward his groin, eyebrows moving in a complicated empathetic dance. 

"Not all people refer to themselves like a bitch in heat having to sit or lie down. Is that how you like it, Stiles?" 

Stiles almost didn't catch the imperceptible twitch of Derek's lips, the tightness around his hazel eyes, or the way his cheeks had firmed up. 

"Oh, Sourwolf's got jokes now, huh?"

Derek's eyebrows were furrowed now, eyes wandering to the left then the right before he sat up slowly, chain rattling with the movement. 

Stiles closed his mouth, clamping off the offended scoff before it could blow passed his lips when Derek placed a hand in front of Stiles. He shifted on the balls of his feet, moving into a crouch and placing his back against Derek's. Eyes darting across the room and scanning the kennels he whispered lowly, "what do you hear?"

"I can't."

"What do you mean you- oh. _Shit_ , it's something you can smell, but not hear, am I right?" He didn't wait for Derek's nod, didn't need it as he froze, eyes leveled with the sickly yellow orbs of a other. His throat was tight, voice raspy and choked as he spoke, "fuck. They actually sent the Windigo."

A foreboding and wretched chill washed over him as be glanced down, met with the sight of the Windigo's clawed and spindly feet spread over the circle of mountain ash. " _Damnit_ , he's their familiar!"


	15. Chapter 15

There isn't much about familiars that isn't explained, in one way or another, in global lore. Stiles has researched it all. He's scoured the internet, drowned himself sleepless night after night in tomes full of lore and bestiaries looking for information on familiars at one point or another. 

It didn't take long for Stiles to sort out some truths from the myth, the lore, the legends and spoils of slander that the history of the persecution of witches brought forth. He's deduced the widespread agreements among those around the world, and picked out the similarities in each piece he's read, but has never experienced first-hand.

Familiars choose their witch, traditionally through a series of devoted and attentive rituals in the form of meditations that take place in the galore of nature's folly.

A familiar is said to be a witch's closest companion. They are spiritually attuned, sensitive creatures that can provide guidance and insight, even going so far as offering support and healing to their companion witch.

Some familiars are said to have special powers, particularly supernatural attributes that correlate with protecting and helping their companion witch. They can lurk around, virtually undetectable (in comparision to the witch themself) as they carry out their witch's deeds and whims- Stiles has his own theories here, skeptical of a familiar being used as a tool and employed by their companion witch's needs and desires. Rather, Stiles believes that the familiar and the witch's needs and desires must correspond in order for a familiar to have to put themselves in peril, or necessity and varying situations must dictate the requirement of a familiar to engage themselves in particular situations. It's a very muddled and unclear concept with many theories attached and not enough data to support and create definitive, concrete principles.

However, it is certain that familiars help and support their companion witch. It's a near agreement that the familiars are just as lethal and as dangerous (in their own ways) as their companion witch.

There's much debate and discord in the heavy and wide divides of religion on whether or not familiars are inherantly good or bad. His belief is that, considering the familiars typically choose their witch, the familiars are only as pure and virtuous as their witch.

One case in particular that causes great discord within religious practices is whether or not familiars are daemons. It is said that if a witch (usually iniquitous and malignant witches) has communications or alliances with forces of evil in order to gain power and status that the witch's familiar can be considered a daemon.

Stiles and Deaton are still exploring what _daemon_ truly means, as the lines between "daemon" and "evil" have been blurred by the ideology of various religions, the media, and (mainly nascent) philosophers. The process of discerning what a daemon truly is in species and mannerism, of allinement and place of indigenousness is sparsely put into action. Little is known first-hand by Deaton and Scott's pack, tomes and history are unreliable- for the most part- and the Argent bestiary offers seldom descriptions that proffer concrete theories.

There is confusion and discordance amongst society wherein the topics of daemons lie. Some say werewolves are daemons. Creatures of the night, the supernatural, anything that streches outside of traditional human boundaries (particularly when they have fearsome attributes and are active during the night) are viewed as daemonic. This makes it hard for Stiles and Deaton to differentiate and discern anything from something when it's daemon related.

Another unclear theory about familiars: it is said that the familiars could be humanoid creatures. The Zulu believed that reanimated animal corpses could also be employed as a witch's familiar. It makes the lines between truth and myth unclear; if the Zulus are correct then witches can choose a familiar, and they can force their bidding upon the familiar so long as they keep the corpse animated with their magick. If a familiar could be a humanoid creature then there is little doubt in Stiles' mind that a werewolf could reveal themselves to be a familiar for a strong witch.

Stiles has a shitload of theories to discuss with Deaton, if he and Derek survive beyond the witches' thrall over their Windigo familiar. There is some definite breaching of supernatural and magick laws going on here if this clan has forced the transformation of a Windigo upon an innocent and enslaved him-turned-it into a mockery of a familiar.

It solidifies that this clan is of the "Black" magick variety. There is no room for hesitation or fooling around. The taut pull of translucent skin over the sharp, emanciated skeletal body of the Windigo is a call to war.

Questions are left in their gauntlets, thrown into a void as time dictates their need for opposing action. There is no breathing room left for vacillation.

Stiles doesn't hesitate; he doesn't so much as blink as he grasps his and Derek's shackles with deft fingers. He doesn't break eye contact with the Windigo, not when the putrid stench of rotting flesh and infection hit him hard with each heavy and gurgling pant the thing takes, and not when Derek's back tenses, muscles coiling with intent to move with the whiplash inducing rapidity that Stiles knows to predict after months of seeing werewolves in combat.

He's careful, assiduous in ways that comes with pratice and experience, to not touch either of their skin as he presses their shackles together, a tell tale warmth spreading throughout his body and emulating from the major points of rune based concentration. 

He knows that his heartbeat is elevated, he can feel the rush of blood from his open blood vessels. He knows that he doesn't smell like fear, just as he knows the precise moment that his fingers slip through the combined pieces of metal, even before the shackles fall to the floor.

He's quick, matching Isaac's speed post-bite as he brings his opposite hand to his mouth, re-opening the wound on his thumb and running the mixture of saliva and blood along the image of the black velvet sack encasing his mineral blend. He doesn't doubt that he'll have one livid mama McCall wreaking havoc on his soon-to-be infected thumb when he gets back to Beacon Hills, not with the way he plunges his open, bleeding thumb into the mineral blend. 

His tongue is quick, voice strong and steady as he growls out the three base words that he'll need, "procedo coeroceo conventus." To come out, confine, and come together. To trap.

Tendrils of mineral blend strech beyond the loosened ties and lip of the bag. They move swiftly, surging forward with a power he's only found in lightning as they wrap around the Windigo, a separate tendril curling around him and Derek as a barrier.

His breath hitches, a rasp taking tone with it as it stalls at the back of his throat. A thin sheen of cold sweat builds on the back of his neck as the hair on his arms rise. His heartbeat stutters before kicking up a notch.

The first real pricks of fear prod at his spine as the Windigo vanishes, because as the tendrils of mineral blend clasp closed on themselves a few feet in front of him before they recede to the velvet bag, the scent and nearby panting hasn't lessened- if anything it's gotten worse, and the barrier around him and Derek has closed.

The tension emulating from Derek has risen.

As he turns on the balls of his feet, eyes catching onto the violent movements of an up-close scuffle and the angry gnashing of Derek's fangs, lips moving quickly in harsh formations of words, he realizes that even with his and Derek's supernatural advantages the Windigo is faster than the both of them combined.

They've faced fatal disadvantages before. They've faced creatures of the night far worse and certainly scarier than the gaunt and decaying body of a witch's puppet. They've faced life or death situations together before, and somehow that seems to make it worse, because this is personal. The witches know who Stiles is, they've violated his past, mutilated a portion of his family, and are trying to write his future. 

Adrenaline makes it easy to forget how fragile and human his body is, even with his growing capabilities.

Maybe it would feel less like a personal attack if it was just his future they were trying to write. Instead, the witches are trying to use his and Derek's death as lure for each of their packs. They're maiming and using his family to kill hundreds of innocents. 

Maybe if it weren't Derek's death that they're trying to lord over him and dangle just within his grasp, he wouldn't feel so incensed. Maybe it wouldn't hit home, after all those sleepless nights wondering how Derek survives even though he enters a new level of hell with every breath. Maybe if they hadn't picked the one person that he's known to truly know the meaning of anguish and torment, he would fall right into their plans, or react less violently.

Maybe if it were Scott with him then they could work this out as a team and take down the Windigo instead of doing the exact opposite of Stiles' norms.

Maybe if it had been Isaac he wouldn't charge ahead.

Maybe if it had been Allison he wouldn't push her out of the way like he does with Derek when he sees the physical cues of a swipe of claws aimed at the left side of Derek's chest, close to his neck. Allison would have stayed back-to-back with him, or side-to-side.

Maybe if it had been Aiden and Ethan he wouldn't do something so intimate and personal as painting his blood-saliva mixture over his sides so that he can extract his knives, swipe them over the Windigo and use them to pop open its chest.

Maybe if it had been Lydia he wouldn't grasp the frozen, atrophied heart and use his runes to set it on fire between his hands.

Maybe if he didn't hear Scott and Emma's howl he would have noticed the blood that was steadily pouring from his wounds inflicted by the Windigo's claws.


	16. Chapter 16

After the Windigo it was all about choices. Which door should they open? Should they go after the witches, or run toward their packs?

Should they trust each other?

"We need to get to Scott." 

The fear was mostly residual, adrenaline numbing away everything but the potent inexhaustibility of Stiles' will (one of many things that he and Scott share). He was damp with blood, mottled skin decorated with beads of sweat and lines of jagged cuts with a depth and severity that neither him or Derek were cognizant of. 

It passed through their awareness, Stiles not able to feel it, and Derek unable to see it through Stiles' shirt. Neither would notice a horrifying, gurgling, wet sound coming with each of Stiles' breaths until specks of blood would decorate his lips. It would remain undetected until the wheezing of Stiles' breath and the fight inside his body became violent; until it would be paired with the hacking of blood and the sounds of drowning; until it became haunting enough to become another nightmare for the both of them.

"What about the witches?"

Stiles wipes his slick hands on his jeans, eyes scanning the room as he mumbles a soft chant, calling the mineral blend back into the velvet bag.

"We can find the witches again. We can't revive a dead pack." 

They end up not choosing a door, because Derek's fists can and _do_ punch through walls. He's like the Hulk, only less green and less like Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde (unless Mister Hyde ate Doctor Jekyll, Stiles thinks that might be accurate). 

There were no adjoining buildings, just a small strip of abandoned structures- they appeared to be old houses- left to crumble in their own decay not too far away from an older backroad that was likely underused.

They work as partners, fighting for the same cause and working toward the same solution. There's a synchronization in the way they run, Derek leading them toward the packs and Stiles watchful for any potential of the witches' entrapping spiderwebs weaving throughout the forest. 

They're at least a good fifteen miles away from the city, without phones, and ignorant to the damage the witches have done. The only stand they can take to help prevent a pack war here and now is through communication.

"You need to howl, Derek." 

They don't stop running, substantial fatigue and a weakness that feels wrong and unprecidented in the shadow of comparison to the fates of wounds and high bodily stress through prior conflicts and tortures wearing Stiles down. He ignores the piqued huff of Derek's retaliation.

"They need to know where we are! If you howl they can find us. Both packs will come looking for us. We need them to come to us too, Derek, because we sure as hell won't make it in time."

A warm slick is painted along Stiles' lips as he coughs, heaving something thick and wet as Derek tips his head back, his feet stationary as he bellows. His howl shakes the trees, leaves twist as they descend, falling away from the clutterings of the family of foliage. The roar of sound that comes with Derek's howl slaughters the silence that comes with the hints of dawn beginning, decimating the illusion of calm as birds leap out of the treetops and into the air before soaring away together. It reminds Stiles of pack, and just how far away his father is.

It makes him wonder if the witches aren't just interested in his mother's side of the family, and he knows, without the hesitation of doubt, that when he gets back home his paranoia will only increase. Scott will not be sending him on lone missions in the immediate future.

It also makes him wonder why, if the birds have already left, he still sees floating spatters of dark masses in his vision. He looks to Derek, breath rattling in his constricting throat as he sways. Blood is flooding his mouth, pearls of it traving down the corners of his lips. He hasn't noticed that the wheezing, the tightness in his chest, and the feeling of not getting enough oxygen isn't from running at all. The slick on his lips isn't saliva, and the cold isn't from the wind.

His fingers are trembling when he grips his shirt, movements jerky as he tries to remove it. His breath hitches. Wheezing before he coughs, blood spatters down his chin and sprays the grass, clinging to it like dew as he peels away pieces of fabric from his wounds where the blood is still running freely and attempting to clot.

There are ragged cuts decorating his arms, slashes beyond his left shoulderblade that travel up toward his shoulder. Part of his trapezius is shredded. There are cuts across his chest, shallow in comparison to his back; the Windigo's claws must have just barely knicked him before he popped open its chest. The left portion of his back, near the ending of his ribcage, are where the deepest set of slashes are. They grate across his ribs, skin cleanly sliced and gradually grows larger as the depth extends. The slashes are short in length, but deep enough to have just barely punctured his lung. 

His eyes are wide, face ashen when he drags his eyes away from the wounds to look at Derek. His knees wobble before giving out. "Fuck."

It happens so fast. 

Derek's by his side, his voice a distorted blur with the high doses of adrenaline pumping through Stiles' veins. His eyebrows furrow, one hand curled in the grass and another finding an anchor through clasping tightly at Derek's shirt, knuckles white and skin tautly streched over his joints.

He can't make out the words that Derek's saying through the thunderous beat of his heart and the loud pulsating near his temples. The blood vessels in Derek's hands are black where they're bearing down on the worst of his wounds, exherting enough force to try and staunch the bleeding.

Stiles' head clears enough for him to make out Derek saying, "it's okay, Stiles, you're okay", and "I've got you. Scott's on his way." It's meaningful, and enough to push him into trusting Derek just that small bit more so that he can relax, because, even if he dies tonight, he knows that Derek's on his side, if only for this moment.

He just hopes that Scott smells the Windigo on his corpse and hears the truth in the beat of Derek's heart before he jumps to conclusions.

The last thing that he hears before he goes lax in Derek's grip, breath fast and gurgled as blood flows from his mouth to the forest floor and eyes rolling back, is a howl loud enough that it shakes the forest floor.

It's Derek's howl, and corners of Stiles' lips tilt downward as he absent mindedly notes how unfortunate it is that it sounds urget and sorrowful.


	17. Chapter 17

Whoever started the rumor that supernaturally fueled enhanced healing was awesome was a disgusting liar. It hurt like a _bitch_. It was the only thing that Stiles could remember about waking up, the full bodied, white-hot pain all encompassing in Stiles mind.

It started as a burning sensation, that's what had originally woken him. It was similar to touching a hot griddle with the full weight of your body focused on the area touching the griddle, only this burn was constant throughout his whole body. Adding to the burn was the sensation of being flayed open and dissected, panic and fear trickling into the equation. Then he couldn't get enough oxygen, his breaths coming in harsh pants. He was a human turkey, sufficating in the oven while someone sliced him open to see if he was tender and cooked enough to eat.

He's acclimated with the environment that he's chosen to run with. Part of his adaptation to his and his pack's lifestyle was his acquired pain threshold. He's developed a high tolerance of pain, which is useful in times of kidnap-turned-hostage situations (he hasn't screamed since his third kidnapping, not even when a hunter used electricity on him and slowly drove thick needles into his inner thighs). It isn't useful when it comes time to heal, and he can't give Melissa an accurate description of the pain, or if he goes too long dealing with what he thinks is just physical discomfort.

He has a high pain tolerance, which is why he's startled into rigid and unyeilding tension when abrupt bursts of pain rip through him, starting at his head and moving downward, concentraiting at his back with a heat from Hell. The pain doesn't last; it isn't a continuous and persistent affliction, instead it's a sporadic agony and pulsates with brutal rippling aftershocks. It's a torment that penetrates through his system, each thrust rougher than its prior. It clashes against him, the torrent of slowly healing anguish knocking down his restraint and rattling his teeth with the force behind it. 

It leaves him feeling raw.

He knows at the corners of his conscious, floating somewhere in the shadowy depths of his mind, that the pain is from something curative. It means that his pack found him in time.

Relief doesn't flood his prone form or exude from his pores when he is able to blink away the gunk at his eyes, vision blurry and head groggy. It doesn't come when he feels the too weak, sore feeling in his joints, his muscles affected so extremely that it feels bone deep and grating against his marrow. It only comes when he sees the familiar faces of his pack, Deaton ever tranquil as he stands next to Scott.

He catches sight of Derek in the corner of the room, seemingly unharmed and indifferent. Emma's pack is standing as a solid, shifty line behind Scott's pack. He groans softly, mouth dry and his tongue heavy. His throat feels inflamed and scraped.

The next thing that he notices, belatedly, is that they're in his motel room and he's lying on the bed, his face turned to the side and his exposed back facing the ceiling. The edges of his vision is still questionable, his balance probably worse than when he first started walking, if the strong sense of wooziness whirling inside him is any indication (and there were many scrapes to be had when Stiles was an adventurous toddler- his parents were enablers there- so it's probably for the best that he doesn't shoot off of the bed like a madman).

He extends a hand, shooing away Scott's when he reaches for it, his chocolate brown eyes warm with concern. "Water, fuck. I want water." 

Isaac is his savior. He loves Isaac. He lied about tainting Isaac's stroganoff, he's gonna make the best damn Stilinski pizza for his curly haired prince when they get back to Beacon Hills, because Isaac brings him a water bottle (he's such a gentleman, opening the lid for Stiles), _and_ covers his back with a rough sheet supplied out of the courtesy of the motel.

He pats Isaac's hand before pushing up on shaky arms, shooting Scott a _chill bro, I'm okay, just let it happen_ look when he steps forward. He gulps the water, not one bit self-conscious when some of the water overflows and drips down his chin and throat onto the bed. Everyone else can fuck off, thank you very much, because he just went from critical condition to extreme pain from too-quick healing for his human body to handle pleasantly. He's not going to make drinking water graceful.

He closes the water bottle, stuffs it somewhere in the sheets near him before he starfishes out on the bed, breathing deeply. He looks to Scott, expression stern and serious. He looks to his Alpha, because now isn't the time for friends. 

"What happened after I conked out?"

"You were close enough to the backroads that Derek and I could get you into Allison's car. We brought you here and Deaton, two of us had to keep pressure on your back while Deaton made a salve to close the worst of it up."

Deaton stepped forward, a cylindrical glass jar in hand. "Bladderwrack, chamomile, comfrey, horsetail, marshmellow root, apple leaves and lemon compress. They're pressed over the remaining wounds and bandaged. I want Melissa to see you when we get back, Stiles. It was a close call. You're lucky that Emma has an Emmisary with a good stock, otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Stiles inhales deeply, fingers flexing over the sheets piled on the bed as he looks from Deaton to Derek to Scott. His lips purse, he drags his forearms toward his chin and rests his jaw on his wrists and hands. "What do we do now? Did you look for the witches?"

He ignores the glower he recieves from Derek, doesn't care that he's said something to trigger its focus on him. "We were a little preoccupied with an idiot bleeding out."

He arches an eyebrow and regards Derek with cool disinterest. "It was better than the first option. Windigo strikes, you're down for at least ten minutes. My focus is divided between wondering " _oh shit, is he dead?_ " and killing the Windigo." He throws a warning glance around the room, searching for Peter and huffing softly when he doesn't find a narcissistic sociopath in the room. He relaxes back onto the bed and returns his focus toward Derek. "It could have jepardized the whole situation. One of us could have ended up dead, maybe the both of us."

"One of us did almost die." He isn't expecting the intensity and the heat behind the hiss of Derek's words. "I heal. You don't work like we do, Stiles. When are you going to get that? Is it when you see one of your friends heal from the same wound that leaves you in the hospital for months and with permanent damage afterwards? No. No, that's probably already happened to you, hasn't it?" Derek's standing now, eyes Beta blue and features sharp with previously undisclosed fury. "Maybe it's in the middle of a battle when you're somewhere, bleeding out at the hands of your enemy, your friends falling around you. Maybe you'll die alone, wondering why you've done that to your father. Wondering how you could make a parent choose a headstone for his only child."

Stiles' expression is hard, eyes cold and uncaring as Emma snaps out Derek's name, her eyes glowing Alpha red even as Scott's snarl rips through the voices, his claws extended and his teeth bared toward Derek.

"You're right, Derek. Maybe I should have let the Windigo kill you. Maybe it would-" he cuts himself off, feeling a cold reminder of just what concern he had for his father before he passed out (the memory of his mother's sighing voice telling him to take the high road might help too). 

He pushes himself up, swinging his legs toward the edge of the bed and shifting quickly until his feet brush the carpet. Nausea hits him hard, and he looks toward Scott, voice strangled and breath tight, "they knew me, Scott. What if they come after my Dad?"

He feels self-conscious when his cheeks flush and a thin film of sweat envelopes his skin right before he vomits in the trash bin conveniently placed near the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mulder200 totally deserves some credit for being such a loyal reader and commenter. =]
> 
> I thought a shout-out and an update would do nicely for that.


	18. Chapter 18

The acrid stench of bile filled the room. Stiles didn't know how the werewolves were handling it if was making his eyes burn (that might have something to do with his face still shoved inside the trash bin).

He swears, his pack is really made up of angels, werewolves are just their disguise. Scott grabs wads of toilet paper and shoves them next to his face while reaching out to check his forehead (his mother's a nurse, it's a habit for Scott to care for everyone, just like it's always been a habit for Stiles to be a little too aware as a kid). He appreciates the gesture, but really, werewolves run hot. He likes it better when Isaac grabs a small tin of ice from outside the privacy of his motel room and presses the cubes to Stiles' skin. 

He is so making Stilinski pizza for his pack when they get home. He'll even let Isaac and Scott fight over which movie they watch (maybe).

He's sloppy, but quick when he wipes his mouth and gurgles some of the water from the bottle Isaac gave him earlier. He snatches Scott's wrist, drags his hand away from his forehead and tilts his head to stare at his best friend, his brother, and his Alpha all rolled into one remarkable person.

"Check on my Dad, Scott. You need to check on my Dad. Someone needs to be with him. I don't care who it is- except Peter- someone needs to be with him. But, not Peter. No Peter. Anyone else, just _someone_ , Scott. I can't lose him too. He won't-" he shakes his head and inhales sharply. His gaze drops down as he presses part of his wrist and a shaking thumb to his mouth. His fingers tremble, and he actively works to calm himself- something he hasn't had to do for quite some time. He looks back up at Scott, expression remaining cool and composed throughout his ramblings. "He won't stand a chance against them, if they come for him. Send Lydia and Allison, Scott. They'll have the best chance at facing them. 

"They'll use your transformation against you. It's like a game to them, putting supernatural creatures and beings under some sort of thrall." He looks to Deaton, eyebrows furrowed and mouth set in a grim line. "They use them like weapons. They're slaves, and it's _fun_ to the clan. It's like a challenge for them. They use the power and the lull of someone's transformation against them." He bites down on the fleshy part of his thumb, eyes unfocused. 

"They were going to do the same damn thing to Derek." A scowl is painted across his lips, freatures drawn with solemn tones of disgust and ire. He scrubs his face with the palms of his hands, a low groan that has the scratchy quality of a growl to it huffs passed his lips. 

He peeks up at Deaton, "have you heard of any clans like this? Do you have any books, records maybe, about witches that follow some sort of warped, sick tradition like that?"

Stiles' eyes narrow at Deaton's reaction, the thoughtful and calm expression the vet wears as he tilts his head. He knows precisely what Deaton's going to say before it's even voiced.

"I can look into it when we get back, Stiles. For now, I think that we all need a bit of rest."

Stiles looks to Scott, eyebrows raised and mouth set in the wordless expression of " _my Dad, don't forget, Scott._ "

The familiar smile and flash of Alpha red eyes is comforting, the silent " _I've got you, everything will be okay. We'll figure this out_ let it go, this needs to happen".

He ignores the scowl on Derek's face. He ignores how his body language simultaneously screams both defensive and aggressive. He ignores the impatient set of Derek's jaw and the way his fings clench and flex as he crosses his arms over his chest. He ignores that Derek stands while he sits, knowing that it's Derek's own little comfort to have that advantage over Stiles, or the ability to make a quick escape if he needs to.

He ignores everything until everyone else leaves the room. He doesn't begin talking immediately, he drags out the silence and grabs a pocket knife he stuffed into the drawer of the nightstand. He ignores the way that the tension in the air skyrockets, doesn't show any form of acknowledgement to Derek's step forward as he makes a shallow cut in his palm. 

He's beyond minor pain right now, not that this scratch would have hurt had he not been (willfully?) partially mauled by a Windigo. Two years ago he would have hissed, sucking in a breath sharp enough to hurt his lungs, and cursed everything in sight to a pit of carnivorous poison ivy and back. He hardly notices scrapes and bruises now, it's usually his pack or some concerned citizen that points it out to him. This desensitization is part of his adaption to keep up with his pack and survive through a night of running with wolves to defeat the next evil pixie looking to bring the loch ness monster and friends to Beacon Hills to start the uprising of world domination.

He uses the first drops of blood and saliva to take out his makeshift bag of quartz. "I'm sorry that you're caught in this situation because of me." He tilts his head up, defiance drained as he replays his mother's words over and over. It's another piece of him that's grown, it's new and still developing, but he's getting better at biting his tongue and swallowing his pride to take the high road- even if it isn't fair, and even when he doesn't believe that he should be the first one to apologize. He continues when the only reaction he recieves are composed features and hints of shock and intrigue in Derek's eyes.

"I'm sorry that I may have ruined your good graces with Emma, and your position in her pack. I'm sorry that I've made things uncomfortable for you by discovering where you were when you weren't comfortable with disclosing it yet. I'm sorry that I almost bled out on you, and you should know that you know that it's not your fault that it happened at all. I'm sorry that you had a shitty day because of what's gone on here, and that I took part in making it shitty for you."

He uses the next drops of blood and saliva to extract the gun and two magazines.

He squares his shoulders, fighting the tension and the bite of anger that wants to leak out into his body language and seep into his words. "But, I'm not sorry that I pushed you out of the way, or that I killed the Windigo. I'm not sorry, because that might have been a killing blow, and we both deserve better than to die as nothing more than expendable toys playing a puppet show controlled by the witches' hands, Derek. I'm not sorry, because I didn't want anyone else getting hurt, the only exceptions come for the bad guys- or girls, in this case. I didn't regret it then, and I don't regret it now, because that's what people do for each other, we make sacrifices and split-second judgements. I wasn't wrong when I made mine."

He feels worn down. The talks about emotions, and thoughts, and heart-to-heart conversations always drain him until he's bone deep weary. He used to talk to his mother like this, and the thought brings a nostalgia that's as piercing emotionally as it is bittersweet. 

Now he understands why his Dad always looks so tired when they have to have certain talks that go beyond their normal social capacity. Explaining these things was always easier when his mother did it, or when she was teaching him to voice everything, because she always loved the way his mind worked and she wanted him to be as proud of it as she was.

He uses what bit of blood and saliva that he needs to extract the last magazine and the canister of aerosol composed of acid.

"I don't expect anything from you, Derek. Hell, I never expected a "thank you". But I won't tolerate you bringing my Dad into this. You can push me around, throw away the idea of respect when you see me, you can snarl in my face and tell me how stupid I am, but," he shakes his head, his laugh astringent and harsh, "you won't bring my family up, because I don't underhandedly bring up yours. If you want to talk about my father, we'll talk. If you want to try and advise me on safety measures for the humans of the pack, fine, I'll listen. The worst I can do is turn them down."

He's standing now, pulled up to his full height as he takes measured steps toward Derek, the careful lilt of a predator translating in his and Derek's body language as they stare each other down. "But you don't get to use him as a pawn to influence me. You don't get to threaten my father, and bring him into these situations." 

His upper lip is curled back in a silent snarl, his teeth on display for Derek. "You don't get to bring him up because you're afraid of someone sacrificing themself for you because they genuinely give a damn about you. You don't get to use him against me because the thought of someone understanding you and protecting you even after you've given them no reason to, terrifies the piss out of your furry dick!"

He welcomes the familiarity that comes with Derek snapping. Doesn't mind that he's dented the wall where he's shoved against it, claws harsh and grating at the skin of his neck, and sharp fangs deadly at the juncture of his jaw and neck. The spittle that comes with each of Derek's exhales don't bother him, it makes him crave that bit of danger that comes with fighting with Derek even more, because he knows how close Derek is to losing it. He has an impulsive urge to see how far Derek will go with how far Stiles pushes him.

But, he wouldn't push Derek, not in that respect, because Stiles isn't Kate. He isn't cruel and sadistic. He won't play with Derek's control and act like the victim when it bites him in the ass. He won't add to Derek's long list of things to hate himself for.

Instead, he pushes at Derek and juts out his chin in defiance. He doesn't bare his neck in submission, or relax under the flex and constriction of Derek's grasp. He fights, like they always do. He fights until he can't hold himself up anymore, and he's panting wheezing breaths, throat stinging like he's scraped it all over again. He fights and ignores the snarling nonsense that's expelled in a rage. 

He fights until he has to slouch against the wall and risk dropping down on his ass if Derek lets go of him. He keeps the fight going until he's lightheaded, whoozy and can smell fresh blood from the remaining wounds he has. He keeps fighting until he's too weak to notice that he's mumbling, and too tired to stop it.

"Was afraid she'd turn you too. Didn't want to risk them torturing you, turning you into a puppet too. 'S not fair. You always get the crappy deals. Why can't we make things better for you? We tried. We tried with the Alpha pack. Too late. Didn't want to be too late again."

He's so tired. All he knows is the wall at his back, the feral growling at his ear, the teeth and claws at his neck, and the tension at the hand spasmatically loosening around his neck. All he remembers is tension, pain, anger and torment and dented walls that he'll probably have to pay for. 

He doesn't remember how he got to bed when he next wakes up.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys!! If you haven't read KouriArashi's glorious Divided We Stand (and the new sequel United We Mend), _or_ tearsandholdme's Your Baby and Me, I highly, highly suggest checking it out. The feels and the journery that these stories (yes, Sterek) take you on is absolutely stellar!!!

It took restraint and self-discipline to deny himself the smothering and frenzied need to whisk up his belongings in haste and dart-gallop-sprint-leap-fucking- _crawl_ to Beacon Hills to check on his Dad. Instead, he spent fifteen minutes leaning against the bathroom sink in his motel room, breathing slow and deep while trying to quell the furocious compulsion to bypass meetings with the packs, suggest offering a temporary alliance to work together, and ignore his duties as Scott's Second, the primary researcher of the pack, and as someone with first-hand knowledge of the clan in order to leave and protect his father from potential harm.

It took half an hour to persuade himself to stay put and request a meeting with Emma's Emissary to see if she has any records of behavior or rituals relating to the clan.

He didn't realize that Emma's Emissary was willfully mute. Apparently it was to help cleanse her soul. Stiles tuned out most of the explination, all he needed to know was that she's mute, not deaf. She was nice enough to let him browse her library, with supervision. 

He wasn't avoiding Derek, or hiding from Scott's prying eyes and his overbearing concern. He was doing valid research- more like brushing back up- on toxic plants. His stock isn't low enough yet for him to reasonably visit an apothecary, but he still needs to refurbish his memory of lethal herbs and plants. He may need the information soon.

He doesn't bother browsing the Emissary's records for history of behaviors or rituals similar to the clan's. She doesn't have them, and if she did they wouldn't be available on the shelves.

He's reading about Angel's Trumpet, Scoth Broom Leaf, Comfrey, and Angelica Root (most of which are poisonous in large doses) when he notices Derek lurking near the doorway. Fucking creeper, skulking around with homicidal intent written across his features.

He wouldn't be surprised if he wasn't the only one who had pointed at Derek and cried murderer. He tries not the wince when the thought comes to mind with a stinging reprimade that sounds dually like his mother and his father. He tries not to think of the shame and the almost desperate need to redeem himself when the thought of Stiles himself finding joy out of looking for Laura's mutilated body comes back up like bile at the back of his throat.

The only bad guy in that incident was Stiles, who pushed the blame of a sister's death onto her younger, grieving brother (even though Derek doesn't ever let anyone close enough to see that he is struggling to grieve- Stiles wouldn't be surprised if Derek wouldn't let himself grieve and instead pushes all the weight of his family's death onto his own shoulders in a mixture of blame and self-hatred).

He doesn't know if there is any redemption from that, adding to the inner turmoil of someone so young and lost by blaming them for something that was no where near their fault when they already despised and blamed themself for it.

"We're not talking about last night. I was stripped of my inhibitions, and was basically unable to function normally. I was completely incoherent and not responsible for the things that came out of my mouth. Especially if it was drool." He doesn't look up from the book as he talks, eyes stalled on the words from the moment he took notice of Derek's presence in the room. It's uncanny, the way that Derek can walk in and out of rooms without people noticing when it happens, and how sometimes it makes Stiles feel relaxed that he has a giant predator prowling around the room (that part may frustrate him just a bit. It might also be the bane of Stiles' perspective on Derek's existance in his life). He's been hanging around werewolves a little too much.

"You're incoherent on a daily basis, and I think that your father would agree with my stating that you've never functioned normally."

"I resent that, you loitering brute. Your words hurt, Derek. They hurt, and now you're going to have to kiss my ass to make it better."

"I'd rather rip your throat out-"

"With your _teeth_. Yeah, yeah. You're just an oversized puppy with a hyperactive biting kink."

Derek snorts. He actually _snorts_. It's like a little huff that comes out of his nose and sounds vaguely like amusement. "That's interesting."

Stiles' gaze falters, eyes snapping up as his attention narrows on Derek. "What's interesting?"

"My kinks and puppies are in the same line of thought for you. I thought that Peter was the mascot for pack lunatic."

"You're on a roll today, aren't you Sourwolf? Got that hamster wheel turning? Don't use it too much, big guy, you don't want to spend all those working brain cells on one person. Or am I just special?"

"I could think of a lot of ways that you're " _special_ "."

"Don't you have a squirrel to chase? Furry bunny to torment and eat? Maybe a deer or two to hunt down and bring to your Alpha to display what a spectacular hunter and provider you are?"

"We need to clean and re-bandage your wounds. Deaton mentioned testing your runes."

Stiles' grib on the book tightens (he can almost hear Emma yelling at him for her Emissary for crinkling a page or two). "Is that a subtle way of inviting me to leave?"

"It's a command from your pack to move your ass."

"But not a command from you? Maybe that's not your forte. Maybe you don't like being in charge. What do you say, Derek: kink for commanding, or being commanded?"

When Derek makes short work of striding toward him, he thinks that he might have gone a little too far, because he knows how obsessed with control Derek is (maybe that's his projection of the little control he's had over his life). He thinks that maybe he's just let a harsh insult slip, or reminded Derek of Kate and how she's had this perverse domination over the control of what happens in Derek's life with her dictating when his loved ones get to live and die. He's surprised when Derek leans down to open a drawer next to the recliner that Stiles is sitting in, confusion etched across Stiles' features when he hears Derek shuffling things around untl he plucks something out of the drawer and closes it. When Derek leans back he can see a full roll of duck tape in his hands, and doesn't that just look like the perfect wanted picture, or something for a BDSM erotica novel?

"I can develope a kink for duck tape. Can you?" The infamous Hale eyebrow arch (of Doom) is put into play, it looks a little dangerous this time and has the vague insinuation of a dare, or a test. There are hints of Beta blue in Derek's eyes, his lips curved into an inhuman, sharp smile as he stands less than a foot in front of Stiles.

"Is that a challenge?" He doesn't look away from Derek's eyes.

Derek's features shift, and Stiles knows without glancing down that the smile has just formed into a smirk that would send " _Code WOLF; Code WOLF: this is not a drill! Every (wo)man for themself!_ " warnings down to his damn toes. Derek looks like the literal depiction of a predator playing with his food as he unfurls the duck tape with a fluid, easy flick of his wrist.

Stiles does not back down from a challenge.

And that's how Stiles ends up back at his motel room, glaring at Derek when the brute drops him on the bed. His mouth is covered in duck tape, wrists bound together, knees firmly taped shut, ankles a close parallel and buddied together with more fucking duck tape.

It doesn't fix everything, though, because Stiles is still yelling- it's muffled and the words are indistinguishable, but Derek's heard Stiles say "screw you" and "asshole" enough times to make them out.

It's easier to tune out Stiles when he's like this, even if he does make a surprising amount of noise with a well applied piece of duck tape in the way.


	20. Chapter 20

It took fifteen minutes for Scott and Deaton to get to Stiles' motel room (Derek should never be hired as a greeter. He does not greet). It was nine-hundred seconds too long cocooned in duck tape and stuck in a room (alone) with Derek. 

Stiles now believes that Derek's fetishes are borderline homicidal.

Scott had that pinched expression with flaring nostrils and a tightness around his eyes that Stiles has decided is his " _I'm trying to be patient with you, because we have bigger things to worry about, so I won't yell at you and put you in a corner like a tantrum-prone four year old_ " face. It's confusing to Stiles when Derek _and_ himself are on the receiving end of it. Because, of course, he asked Derek to do this to him. 

Egging Derek on through nonverbal challenging and potentially vocalized provocation notwithstanding. 

The duck tape isn't as much of menace to Stiles' skin pre and post removal as he thought that it would be. Too bad that the tiny, fine hairs on his face and the thicker, dark ones at his wrists disagree as they're ripped off with it (seriously, he swears there's a small hairless spot at the edge of his left wrist).

He doesn't even bother arguing about removing his clothes in front of them so that Scott can check on the wounds and redress him with bandages. Stiles may be capable of cleaning and dressing the wounds himself- which feel minor in comparison to yesterday-but, Scott's his brother (genetics can fuck off) and his best friend, has been for longer than Stiles has had his adult teeth. He'd worry about Scott too, even with the werewolf healing. The fact that Scott's also his Alpha, whose concern is amplified whenever one of his pack mates are injured, is the source of Stiles' silence and compliance, because he understands the instinctive need to just check and personally take care of someone so close to you. He understands that Scott isn't being pushy, rather, he's a little alarmed and concered. 

He knows that this is Scott's way of coping with the situation, by assigning himself the responsibility of dealing with the injuries and personally making sure that they're healing nicely. They've both been surrounded by death, and the need examine and confirm the safety and health of their pack mates through their own experience has steadily increased. He knows that Scott's always been this way, learning it through his environment and the inadvertent lessons that Melissa has taught him through her own demeanor and career. Scott's always been this way with Melissa, Stiles, and the Sheriff; he's always kept his family close and adopted a fretful, need-to-help attitude whenever someone had so much as a scrap.

Stiles knows that it partially stems from abandonment issues. He knows that Scott's afraid to lose someone, just like he lost his father at a tender age when Melissa said enough to the alcoholism tainting the marriage between Scott's parents. He knows it so well, because the panicky, heart-stopping, white knuckled and gasping pain that comes with the thought of losing another friend, another family member is one that they've shared since they were children, it's only grown as reality and the seemingly impossible crashed into the barriers of their ignorance and innocence.

He does, however, complain at the prospect of his "rune check". The side-glare that he sends Deaton in warning should be poisonous. They're lucky that he hasn't managed to activate some sort of rune for that.

"They're fine. I hardly even used them."

"You seem to be under the impression that over exhertion is what we're looking for." The calm baritone of Deaton's voice, piqued with the vague distraction of interest, almost never fails to make Stiles simulateously relax and tense. "I don't think that the coven was trying to contain you two in their circle; I believe it was put in place merely observe and hone in on your and Derek's individual spiritual signatures." He pointedly glances down at the prominent gathering of bandages tied around Stiles' torso and arms before tilting his head as his lips smooth out into a polite smile. "It will not hurt to check if a Windigo's claws have any effects on your runes, Stiles."

Stiles wipes the sweat forming on his palms on the sheets of the bed as he lies down, gaze flinting toward Derek as the corners of his lips dip downward and his eyebrows quirk upward. "Why is Derek still here?"

He doesn't like the look that Deaton shares with Scott. In fact, Stiles is starting to really despise all looks that people share with anyone but him (unless they're during sex, Stiles can handle not knowing his pack mate's facial expressions during intercourse, thank you very much).

"We'll get to that in a moment, Stiles. I need you to activate the runes for me, for now."

Stiles also abhors the prodding and testing that follows (not that it's painful, it's just boring and quite frankly he doesn't feel that the consumption of time it takes is warrented under these situations).

He's asked to preform some basic maneuvers with the elements (light a candle with your fingertip, douse the flame with a maxium of three beads of water, now burn the wick when it's on the other side of the room, stirr the air, give the dying flower life and rejuvenate the soil). He's asked to show them something more complex, free range (he makes the bed invisable, produces a small bubble that's like an anti-gravity chamber, melts a metal rod that the motel won't miss- or, he _hopes_ they won't notice it's disappearance). 

He's a little drained by the end of it, and he can tell that patches of his skin are illuminated with the dancing glimmers of runes, especially the ones he's relying on. His skin is just starting to get that flushed look that displays how hard he's working. His breath isn't coming in pants, but it is quicker than before they started the testing. 

Deaton seems to be appeased when the rod becomes a disfigured, runny mess that might actually run the risk of dripping onto something in the room. 

Stiles scrubs at his hands until the too dry, unnatural feeling goes away. He flings the droplets of water at the sinkhead and wipes the excess on his jeans before steping out and meeting Scott's gaze. He glances in Derek's general direction and shoots Scott a " _I'm waiting for the good explination that better be coming_ " face.

He knows that the next conversation is going to be one that he hates when Scott's lips soften into that pouting frown, and concern shines like a damn floodlight in his eyes, right there next to the anger leading thin streches of red pigmentation through Scott's irises.

He is so done with this mission, screw being better than a hybrid of Harry Potter and Agent 007.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So..marvelous things happened over the period of time that I wasn't updating. Such as, a misplacement of my flashdrive, which had all of my research on it- hours of research on minerals and herbs and plants and Windigos and rituals, etc. I can't even say what exactly was on it anymore, because I was just loading it up with information that I couldn't save to the laptop (because it's old and grumpy).
> 
> Yeah. Found out that someone washed it, and it's not turning up on the laptop when I plug it in. I'm in a stage of mourning.


	21. Chapter 21

It's when Scott gives him that look that he knows the nervous anticipation bubbling at the base of his spine and curling around each vertebrae like the winding branches of a gnarled tree is wholly justified- even if he doesn't know the grounds behind that look, just yet.

Stiles can't say what the foremost influence was that shaped his mannerisms. Whether they're inherent, observational and learned through his environment and his father's role as the Sheriff, despite the discretion and confidentiallity that comes with the job, or learned through the forced critical decision-making in perilous situations centered around the supernatural. What he does know is that he shares a multitude of mannisms with most of the deputies that he knows. One of them being the extensive use of his peripheral vision.

While Scott's giving him this look, Deaton shuffles. It's such a minuscule thing, just an infinitesimal adjustment of his weight and tilt of his head, but it tells him much more when he notices a small grouping of books that are not his own on the motel room dresser.

The chill that creeps up his spine, seeping in deep to the marrow of his bones, slinks around his neck like the ghost of a noose as it breathes a simultaneously moist and artic blend of stomach chrunning air at the nape of his neck. The fine thatch of hairs at the back of his neck shoot up, rocketing forward with a shuddering wave of goosebumps as his palms numb with the presence of sweat and his fingertips surge with the stinging sensation of a hundred tips of needles pricking his epidermis. 

He knows that he's just dragged the eyes of both Scott and Derek to him by standing just a little too still. That unnatural stock-stillness, the abnormal lack of motion and frozen, panicky look are what catches the eyes of a predator. It's something that can and _will_ cost someone a life, or lives. On varying conscious levels it alerts humans to something wrong; to someone who isn't supposed to be in a specific area; to someone who has reason(s) to be so nervous that it's destructive; to potentially deadly situations.

His heartbeat hasn't kicked up, and the panic won't hit. He's been through enough distress-intensive, survival training-esque, critical situations to remain unaffected in areas other than chilled apprehension and shock. 

He knows those tomes. His fingers have trailed along their pages and drummed his fingerprints into the spine of the richly documented and informative pages. His nails have raked along the clean pages of strewn files full of pictures and diagrams. 

He's read about each of these rituals, and while they certainly aren't offensive or harmful magick (unless they're morphed, or the intent is malicious and the thoughts unclean and muddled), it undoubtedly will not mean bountiful pleasure and victory in the present moment. It speaks of severity and hidden mal-intent that Stiles himself hasn't deigned to revisit. 

He doesn't hear the beginning of Scott's sentence before he interrupts him. 

"Why are we looking at rituals that bind people together? Blood rituals, marital and mating rituals, soul-binding rituals, sworn promises that bind people together for "a year and a day" with the set conditions repeated by each participant verbatim."

"Deaton believes that the coven has memorized each of your spiritual signatures." 

They're still using expressions to convey hidden messages. Apparently that last statement is supposed to mean a hell of a lot more than face-value ratings. Stiles thinks his narrowed eyebrows, vaguely slitted eyes, crossed arms and hip's length apart feet range to distribute his weight effectly translates to " _and that should lead me where, because..?_ ".

"If they had then we should work on shrouding. They can't do much with just a spiritual signature. Influence, maybe, but it won't be an urge that we can't either break, or endure. Mainly they'll be able to locate us, which, shouldn't be too useful because they've already found our fort of safety."

"It means," Deaton gives an unruffled, expressive glance between Derek and Stiles, "that they'll be working on ways to attack you two specifically. They have the ability to modify magick to target both of you in ways that will be personal, and will attach to your signatures with a maleviolent frenzy unlike anything you've come across, Stiles." 

Deaton's hesitation speaks volumes. It's the grating of cracked nails, sharp and harsh against a chalk board close to his ears. It's the cold iron that encloses his viscera, and the ghost of his noose tightening.

"That's not all."

"Fuck." He shakes his head, movements jerky as he graps his opposite elbow and brings his thumb nail to his mouth. His throat is tight with the swelling urge to lash out. "They can work on trying to tie us to them." He spits out his thumb, wipes the slight traces of spit on his jeans and scrubs his face with the heel of his palms. "Which, makes sense. They were interested in the idea of converting Derek into an animal to " _cull enemies_ " and have a " _rampant fuck_ " with." 

He pretends that he doesn't see Scott cringe and turn his flood light, concerned eyes on Derek. Deaton's eyes didn't widen minutely, his facial muscles didn't twitch and that wasn't a quick inhale. Derek didn't tense up.

He doesn't mention how eerily it fits with their obsession of his family, or their vested interest in the potential that has shown up in some of his family members (when the potential doesn't remain dormant).

He hears the calm of Deaton's voice.

"-should use a ritual to deposite spiritual energy within each other to alter your signatures. You two must find a ritual compatible to both of your views. There must be no doubts or hesitations when you work with these, the consequences will be detrimental."

"These are rituals that bind people together for _life_! They have rules and dire repercussions if each of the conditions aren't met! There are unforeseen ramifications that come with these rituals, which take months, sometimes years, to plot and achieve properly."

Scott takes a step toward him, the corners of his mouth pinched in stress, eyes bright with the genuine and candid nonverbal declaration of faith, conviction and hope. Thin stripes of red unravel in his irises.

"You and Derek can agree on something, Stiles. It doesn't have to be a lifetime commitment. There's the sworn promise." The smile shared between him and Scott isn't of Alpha and his Second, but of the brothers they've always been, and the best friends they hope to always be.

The red in Scott's eyes expand until the sweet, human brown is overtaken by the crimson of an Alpha. Scott's eyes volley between him and Derek, before settling on Derek. "We're putting up a barrier until you agree on a ritual and execute it."

Had it not have been for Derek's (feral and potentially frothing at the mouth) snarl, he would have thought him to be mute like Emma's Emissary. When he charges after Scott and Deaton, there's a slow moment where Stiles can feel the barrier click into place just as Derek's claws are a hairsbreadth away from ripping the motel door from it's frame. The sound Derek makes when the barrier sizzles his skin and forces him to stumble a step back is a hybrid of a gutteral caterwaul and a dangerous growl.

He doesn't know whether to be amused that Derek wasn't quick enough to clamp off the sound (or of enough mind), or haunted by the eerie sound of scraping vocal notes.

Instead, he glances at the weight of the tomes on the dresser, apprehension a tight coil in each muscle and the rising burn of bubbling bile in his empty stomach. 

Instead, he thinks of his great-grandfather and hopes that neither him nor Derek will know that fate, even if it means growing homicidal urges while spending this lifetime with Derek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, cool thing: my flashdrive isn't faulty. I think that I almost cried when the laptop _finally_ read it.


	22. Chapter 22

"Break the barrier, Stiles." Stiles opts to ignore the grating notes in Derek's voice; the way his grinding teeth makes his breath hiss, his letters seared in lightly slurred and forced tendrils of rasping and abrasive tones that claw their way to the depths of his mind in deep set vibrations that display the omens of a predator like a knell reverberating through the soul, signalling death and promising all consuming disaster with curls of agony that tears deeper than the limits of physical torments riddled with a jagged and cutting panic that laves at the depths of the mind as it unfurls and awakens under the clutch of skin.

Years of running with wolves, working as a pack and studing their nature makes it easy to not shiver under the distinguished vocal caress of the warning signs of a dangerous predator ready to lash out when caged- it almost isn't a conscious thought at this point.

Stiles knows how much Derek hates being caged and cornered. He knows that Derek hates being caught in the tangles of a plan that involves him, yet was never part of his consent or awareness. If he weren't on the same end of the damn plan he might feel a steady drip of guilt poisoning his mind against the plots of his pack. 

He is on the same end, though. Sympathy is null and void.

"It doesn't work that way, _Derek_. It isn't a line of ash. Actually, it's more of a ward than anything else. Trying to dissolve it would waste precious reasources that we can't squander." He lies back on the bed with a throaty sigh, arms folded behind his head in mockery of a craddel and knees bent at the edge of the matress while his feet dangle above the floor in silent ridicule of gravety. His eyes lazily trace the organic swirls of symbols carved at the spines of the tomes- some of which are hand written.

It's been months since Stiles has picked up these tomes in specific. Their weathered and fraying pages crackling with the soft spoken hushes of firm under currents of Old Magick from the hundreds of Sparks, Witches, Druids, magick users and magick manipulators before him. 

There's life thrumming through these books, faint whispers of the chants used before even his parents were born. There's a knowledge in these books that thrive beyond mere tests of time. The energies and residuel magick of those that furnished the weighty pages with inked inscriptions has clung to the tomes. They drip off of each letter, piece by piece coming together with a hum of encouragement and power through the gift of knowledge given to those willing to have the patience to learn through the teachings of centuries worth of experience and tradition passed down in the form of ancient rites and scripts.

These tomes were of the first that he had to read under Deaton's study. They were part of the building foundation of his knowledge in rituals, binds, and relationships. It applies to each aspect of magick, when taken into careful consideration.

He rolls onto his side, eyes narrowing into a glare. He _hates_ these tomes right now. They're invaluable, but these tomes have been depreciated in regards to his liking of them. 

He winces as he stretches, joints popping and muscles protesting as his wounds shift uncomfortably, scabs tugging at his skin in an effort to keep what's left of slashes closed. He rolls again, this time off the bed and onto his feet to stalk closer to the piles of tomes. 

He catches Derek's eyes as he lifts one, "blood ritual. For all intents and purposes, it's a blood sacrifice. Some are as easy as slicing the palms open and pressing them together, others," his upper lip curls, baring his teeth as his nose scrunches up, "aren't about _infusing_ blood so much as _consuming_ it. Some blood binds require a mind melding. We're not doing it." He flings the tome onto the bed with enough care that it won't damage the tome, but with enough force that Deaton just might skin him alive if he ever hears of it.

He picks up the next tome. "Marital ritual. Pagan bonding ritual that binds us together as spouses or a union. Filing for a divorce would be a more of a bitch than trying to kill and eat your new pack single handedly." The tome is set a little more gently on the bed.

He doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or cry at the irony of the next tome. "Mating ritual. Sex magick. Missionary position is the best with these." He wants to toss that one out the window in hopes that it hits Scott or Deaton; he sets it down on the bed instead.

The next tome makes him wince, shoulders drawn in slightly and body wracked with tension. His voice is a little rough when he speaks, but he doesn't look at Derek to observe his reaction. "Soul-binding ritual. Out of the question. It's more than just mind melding and it would leave us- me, mainly- as sitting ducks for the coven." If he feels a little detached when he sets it down on the bed that's between him and the tome.

The next tome is second to last out of what's left of the piles. "A Year and a Day. It's essentially a Blood Promise. This is one that _should_ take time and consideration, because it can easily go wrong. One slip of wording, a stumble of words, mispronunciation, or an action that was altered, forgotten, or timed incorrectly will warp the entire ritual and damn both of us for a year and a day." The tome is laid near the pillows.

His fingers linger on the last tome, eyebrows twitching into a vague arch before dipping into a minor furrow as he picks it up. "Basic information on rituals and ritual creation." The tome is laid atop his pillow. "All-in-all," he straightens up, eyes roaming the walls of the motel room before he looks at Derek, "we'll either modify and revamp a ritual, get hitched, have sex, risk the Year and a Day ritual, or wait out Deaton and Scott's patience- which, they've both worked on. It's _disgusting_ how long they can wait for something."

Derek shakes his head. His eyes still have hints of blue illuminating his irises, his eyebrows are furrowed and his jaw is set. His nostrels flare when he huffs out an exhale. "Mating isn't just sex, Stiles-"

"I know-"

"-it's forever, sacred."

"I know that! Fuck! Don't you think I know that? We've got a coven capturing people and using altered means to put them under a thrall that's designed like the relationship between a witch and a familiar. They're using people's bodies against them and harvesting their magick to cull enemies and innocents alike, and they want _you_ next. We can't just fucking sit here and act the part of sitting ducks. Can you just work with me before actually I strangle you with wolfsbane infused rope like I want to?" He motions with his hands, arms extended and flushed head jerking toward his bags with wide eyes and hard, determind features.

Shock briefly flickers across Derek's face before his expression smooths into an indifferent mask. He crosses his arms over his chest, stance straight and limbs loose with his feet a hip's length apart.

He doesn't mention that the outburst reminds him simultaneously of just how young Stiles is and just how much he's grown in the past few months that he's been gone. He tries not to linger on the fact that the growth is a byproduct of the danger Stiles and Scott's pack has been thrown into time and time again. 

He tries not to think of the guilt that burns in his chest and curls along the length of his spine at the idea that Stiles is doing this because of the witches' fascination with him. He tries to remember that they're both victims, that the witches are after Stiles just as much as himself and that Stiles is trapped with as little options as he is.

He reigns in biting remarks and displays of aggression; being on the defensive with Stiles will only take them two steps backwards and too many octives higher. He's learned a little over the past few months too, some of those months involving his stay in Beacon Hills. 

He's almost at a point where he could tell Scott that he taught him a little about being a better Alpha.

"The mating ritual is out."

Stiles is silent when he nods, breath a little heavier than normal and cheeks still faintly flushed. His hand splays out on the cleared desk, hip swaying to lean against the edge of the desk with his ankles crossed as he looks over the tomes. His bottom lip is captured between his teeth, eyes roaming over the leather binds of the tomes as a foggy sheen dulls the color of his irises.

"When I took Cora back to South America the pack she was staying with told us about two rituals." Stiles blinks slowly, his gaze is sharp when he cocks his head and considers Derek.

"A bond of friendship. That was the first, they tied Cora and one of her packmates together."

Stiles shakes his head after a moment, lips pursed. "No. A bond of friendship ties two people together, but the unity and harmonization comes from retaining your own magick and spirit. The growth is best and slightly dependant on staying as you are."

Derek's jaw sets as he nods, a tick of tension working at his cheek and smoothing out before he speaks again. "The next ritual was observed between two pack mates. They recieved a tattoo, given to each by the other. The ritual was meant to shift anchors to the meaning behind the physical, mental and spiritual embodiments of the tattoo, and the person it originated from."

Stiles' eyebrows dip into a hard furrow, fingers mindlessly drumming along the edge of the desk as he works at his bottom lip. He shakes his head minutely, pauses and lets out a sound of approval. 

"Yours would be the Triskelion." It's mentioned as a statement with the intonement of a question. Derek gives a hesitant nod, an eyebrow arched in silent demand for information.

"Nauthiz. My anchor is Nauthiz." When Derek's other eyebrow climbs his forehead to match it's brother Stiles continues. "It means constraint, need, strength, shame and sorrow. Lessons, hardship and distress. Innovation, fire and self-reliance. It means transformation, the will to overcome conflict, confusion and distress. Self-control, edurance, survival and determination. A time to excersize patience, recognition of one's fate, and major self-initiated change. It's restriction, pain, poverty, frustration and responsibility. It's stress, obstacles, omens and necessity. The reverse is wrong directions, possessive, and innopropriate."

Derek cocks his head, a very slight movement coupled with a minute loosening of his arms, no longer streched tauntly across his chest. "That could work."

"It'll hurt." Stiles leans his tailbone against the edge of the desk, partially sitting atop it as he drags his palms over his face. "I'll have to use my magick, and you'll have to use your," he grips his bicep, arm crossed over his chest as his other hand outstretches to wiggle his fingers in Derek's direction, "claws."

"It's the safest ritual."

"It's the only option."


	23. Chapter 23

Stiles picks up the last tome, the weight simultaneously comforting and menacing in his hands as he considers their situation. He flips through the pages, unseeing and aimless as his vision glosses over with unfocused and uncertain pondering. He's vaguely aware of Derek's shifting and tensing form, distantly aware of the rising unstrung and edgy atmosphere swirling around them.

"We'll have to modify rituals, create our own guidelines." He clasps his teeth around his bottom lip, fingers rhythmically clenching and relaxing around the bindings of the tome's leather cover. "It's risky." 

He closes the tome, fingers drumming at the back of the tome's cover as he brings it to his chest. He pauses, momentarily holding still before pursing his lips and turning on his heel. His back is turned toward Derek when he bends over the desk, placing the tome down to riffle through his backpack, producing a bundle of papers and a pen threaded between his fingers.

"We need to find a balance. Shifting anchors is still tricky business. There are different variations that we could produce- ones that we want to avoid. We could accidently combine our spiritual signatures and essentially trade anchors. We can't risk swapping anchors, it would take too long to learn control and restraint; it wouldn't work like an anchor _should_ for us." A resounding clatter cuts through the room when Stiles' frantic fingers sift through the pages of the tome, frustration thick as it curdles his voice. 

"We don't have enough time to create a proper ritual!" His fingers are rough as they grate against his temples, the pads of his fingers firm when they run down his cheeks only to meet again at his jaw and drop with a hefty thunk atop the desk. 

"We can't just sit in this room until Scott decides to let us out, Stiles! We don't have enough rations to cover more than three days." Derek's pacing is nearly inaudible; it would be imperceptible had Stiles not felt the disturbance of Derek's distinguished bulk slinking through the room in the air. There's a biting foretaste of a high-pressured growl edging into Derek's voice, trailing off with a snarled huff that barely carries through the air to Stiles' ears.

"I know that!" Stiles' fingers are carding through his hair again, strands snared in his grip as he tugs. " _I know._ " The near silence of his voice is worse than the yelling that Derek remembers. Less than a year ago Stiles would be facing Derek down, body taunt, neck flushed with anger, eyes wide and nostrels flaring like the werewolves he runs with. His arms would be flailing in wild motions and his voice would be loud enough to scrape against the last of Derek's nerves.

He doesn't remember Stiles as the growing man he shouldn't have to be. He doesn't remember the coiled muscles, knuckles white with strain, back drawn straight with terse lines of stress. He doesn't remember the boy harboring a soft sterness in his voice that could pull more attention from a crowd than the clamouring of a screaming, raving adolescent.

He doesn't remember when he stopped referring to Stiles as a kid and started fumbling with the uncertainty of defining the person in front of him. Stiles isn't a boy anymore. In just a few months this over active, lanky teenager has grown into himself just a bit more, just enough to be noticable.

He's got more experience on his plate than most forty year old humans, evident in the masked scars littering the boy-turned-man's body and seared beyond the planes of flesh and muscle. He can feel the change in the charged atmosphere around Stiles, that touch of magick swirling around him that even the humans might notice, if only barely.

He can see the change in the more pronounced definition of Stiles' body, the thicker wiring of tendons. His shoulders are almost as broad as Derek's now, his body still maturing but cut in lean, compressed strips of sinew built for stamina and speed.

Stiles sighs, hands dropping slowly until his fingers are loosely gripping the edge of the desk. He scoots backwards, perching himself on the edge of the desk, expression solemn when his eyes meet Derek's.

"This ritual is supposed to be about putting our anchors on each other to tie the humanity of our anchors together. It's supposed to double the strength in the grounding of our anchors without _combining_ the anchors or trading our anchors. We need to alter the ritual to avoid doing that."

Lean fingers decorated with the occasional freckle drum along the edges of the desk with contained, riled up energy.

"The ritual will require us to add 'spiritual energy'," those lean fingers curl in a physical mimic of quotations, "to change each other's spiritual signature." 

Derek's eyebrow twitches, jaw tightening. Stiles is quick to explain; the way his words almost stumble into each other in his rush brings with it hints of nostalgia and the familiarity of Stiles' basic personality.

"It'll prevent the witches from putting one of us under a thrall. It's one viable defense against any curses or rituals that they may while specifically targeting us." 

There's a stilted moment where Stiles opens his mouth, fingers flexing as his tongue wets his parted lips.

Derek inches closer, eyes narrowing minutely. His eyebrows are drawn, scowl firmly in place and arms back to being crossed over his chest. The thick thatch of hair at the base of his neck lifts as though static has passed over it. His gums burn as the wolf in him stalks closer to the surface. Ice blue bleeds into the hazel of his irises. "What aren't you telling me?"

"The marks will tie us together. It'll give us an awareness of each other similar to pack bonds," Stiles' fingers flex again, unease filling the air as his tongue swipes across his lips, "only stronger. We'll have to stay near each other, at least until I figure out every aspect of the results. Even if we used a tried and true ritual the outcome varies from person to person."

Stiles' heartrate isn't spiking; he's not afraid, just uneasy. It's rattling Derek's nerves, eating away at the edges of his patience as he grits out, "you're leaving something out."

"We'll need to be in the same pack, the same city. Hell, we might have to be in close quarters until it's a little less fresh."

Stiles distantly thinks that the roaring sound ringing in his ears is rather impressive for a Beta's snarl. The sound tapers off into a virulent growl that rocks the furnature into the walls and nearly unhinges the door. 

Stiles is vaguely surprised that there aren't spiderweb cracks in the mirrors and windows. He detachedly wonders if Derek has an impressive set of lungs, or if the Alphas he's run into are just a little disappointing vocally.

Maybe it's a combination of both.

It's impulsively driven when Stiles grabs the lapels of Derek's leather jacket, putting himself nose-to-nose with two-hundred pounds of pissed off werewolf. His voice is low and gruff, eyes steady with determination and pulse relaxed when he speaks. "I'm not your friend, but I'm not your foe either. We'll deal with this situation to the best of our ability and figure the rest out later. Let's focus on the now instead of throwing bitch fits about a future we might not have."

He lets go of the lapels of Derek's jacket just as Derek's palms make contact with his wrist, fingers clasping tightly in a mockery of shackles.

"I don't trust you." The growl resonates in his present and his past.

"Learn to because I'm the only one covering your furry ass." The skin at Stiles' wrist become white with pressure when Derek's fingers curl in a fraction closer. Stiles lets his control bleed out a shred, his skin humming with the frenzy of restrained magick and his eyes burning with an etheral glow to match the Beta blue of Derek's irises. He steps closer to Derek, eyes narrowed and voice firm. "Learn to because both our lives depend on it. I damn well didn't come this far to be thwarted by some witches who think that they can manipulate and mutilate anyone in their path." He bares his teeth, undercurrents of a malicious hiss riding on the breaths that fuel his voice. "You didn't survive this long to let some more women destroy everything you've built back up for yourself.

"You haven't been part of Emma's pack for very long. I can see how new this formation is, how shaky the leadership is and how weak the bonds are. Put your faith in me; for once, put your faith in _me_ , Derek!"

It's not easy to break a werewolf's hold, especially a determind, enraged werewolf. Stiles makes it look easy.

"Put your faith in me, even if you don't trust me, because I'm putting my faith in you. I'd rather die doing what's right than rot here, waiting to be attacked." His voice softens, the hum of magick gradually dissipating. "I'm not your foe, Derek."

Twin breaths beating out in harsh little huffs are the only moves either men taken. The moment is long and drawn out, each staring the other down as human based colors invade their irises, wolf and magick alike slinking back with the strength of control.

"I'd offer you my neck before tricking you into a bond." The profoundness of the meaning isn't lost on either of them as Stiles tilts his head. His limbs are loose with forced relaxation, breath evening out as exhaustion seeps in to the depths of his bones. 

His neck begins to ache, fingers itching to move, the soles of his feet uncomfortable with this prolonged stagnation. He doesn't trust Derek, not with the intimacies filtering in and out of his present life. He trusts Derek with his life on good days, though.

He trusts Derek enough to take things a step further by closing his eyes. He pretends that he doesn't notice the difference in Derek's breathing pattern when the werewolf takes notice without losing sight of the signification of his action.

Derek's body is wraught with tension, irises still faintly blue when he gives an imperceptible nod. Fifty-four seconds pass before his stance slowly relaxes, his feet sliding back minutely to accompany a less defensive posture. His shoulders are still tight, biceps coiled tightly with tension. "Okay."

Stiles slowly opens his eyes. He straightens and gives a subtle nod. "Okay." Metal glints off of the dimming light in the room when Stiles pulls a blade out of his back pocket. "I need some blood plasma and saliva from you if you're going to mark me." He holds the base of the blade out to Derek, eyebrows notched high on his forehead with expectation as he motions sharply with the base of the blade, waiting for Derek to take it.

"I need to put it in the salve if you're going to flay me open. I'd rather do this before evening passes. We'll need the rest afterward."


	24. Chapter 24

It took less convincing than Stiles anticipated to end up with a small sample of Derek's blood plasma and (a little too much) saliva- spit; Derek literally spat in his vial like a damn old school baseball player hooked on chewing tobacoo. 

Things are easier after that- mindless and automatic in the motions as Stiles mixes Derek's contributions into the salve Deaton left for him last night. Three minutes was all he needed to prepare for the actual ritual, his mind numb and energy humming just under the grip of his skin. 

He knew Derek could feel it, the anticipation spicing the air underneath all the calm.

He knew it was mutual.

It's only as he's removing the tomes from the motel bed that he feels a defensive tension creep up. It's a bitter taste rolling in his mouth, steadily thickening under the caress of a silence left undisturbed.

It's difficult for them both to entrust their bodies, their _lives_ to someone they only reinforce in dubious alliances while struggling to survive on their feet. It's made all the more difficult by the lack of a willingness entwined with the metaphorical floodgates of choice fueling their personal needs to initiate the ritual.

The reason behind the necessity and their lack of personal drive through willful and emphasized choice of the ritual seems dull and miniscule beside the focus of survival. Survival is key; it's the driving force behind their actions when Stiles and Derek come together. A binding ritual is survival and that pragmatism is what solidifies their resolve.

Stiles' expression is neutral, heartbeat steady when he turns to Derek and strips down to his boxers without the need of exchanged words. Of all the impressions he's left, this is the one that makes Derek's heart sputter with sharp palpitations. It makes him stand a little taller, back straight and stance stronger with the shift in his center of gravity. 

Stiles isn't just a human running with a pack of werewolves, he's just as much a soldier as the 'wolves, if not a stronger fighter.

It chills Derek, pinning the ghost of fear to his skin and engraining it down to his bones. These battles have turned boys into men and men into warriors.

Haunting nostalgia slithers up his spine; his deltoids spasm with the weighty gravity of guilt.

He's facing a looking glass. 

Stiles' skin isn't nearly as viciously marred with bruises as the night before. His skin is stained with sickly yellows and pin dots of deeper shades that are just barely hidden under his bindings instead of the variegated contusions painted with dark hues in large masses across his body. He's no longer drenched in the viscous, metalic scent of blood that stoked emotional disquiet amongst his pack.

The shallow abrasions that littered Stiles' arms are barely there when Stiles undresses the bindings; the patches of skin look pink and a bit raw. But, it's the deep lacerations from a near definitely mortal swipe of the Windigo's claws that are a priority.

The skin is puckered at his ribcage; the five lacerations above Stiles' floating ribs leading from his left side, through his trapezius to his left shoulder have shrunk, the depth less severe and wraped in an organic cast of crusted blood. There's a distinct lack of the sickening perfume that is infection wafting off of Stiles, which is a good sign.

His injuries still make him a liability in a fight.

"We should mark the same general area on each other." Stiles kept his gaze leveled with Derek's, mouth open with paused notes as he drew breath in and out of his lungs. "Do you have any preferences?"

He tracks the movement of Derek's eyes, glancing down when they come to a standstill. His breath rattles in his throat, catching before he can exhale smoothly because Derek's staring at the patch of skin on the left side of his torso just below his ribcage, directly below the lacerations that peek out from his back and cut into his side.

It's directly below the swipe that should have incapacitated Derek last night.

Stiles nods his head, fingers moving in habitual and mindless fidgets. "You'll have to carve the Triskelion with your claws and seal it with the salve."

At Derek's curt nod Stiles curls his fingers, flexing each digit. "How do you want me? Standing up? In a chair?" He glances at the bed, eyebrows raised high as he regards Derek's composed visage, "lying down?"

Derek's expression is pinched for a moment, his gaze slowly moving from the bed to the desk. He looks resolute and firm when he adjusts his focus back to Stiles. "On the bed. Lie on your side."

There's a stilted, awkward moment where neither of them move and the air seems to disperse before Stiles sighs, decisiveness fueling his motions when he kneels on the bed and carefully situates himself. He glances at Derek and points to jar of salve on the nightstand, "use it after you're done with each leg. Don't stop to put it on. There should be a hand towel next to it- use it when you can't see through the blood. We don't have iodine or antiseptic wipes."

He folds his arms under his head and nods at Derek as he approaches, claws extended. Stiles exhales deeply, eyes fixated on the tips of Derek's claws. "I'm ready."

Stiles doesn't tense under his touch like Derek thought he would. He doesn't whimper or writhe with aborted movements to get away from Derek's touch when he starts on the first leg of the Triskelion, the incision too shallow at first. He doesn't ball up his fists when Derek has to dig into the beginning of the first leg to split the sinew apart deeper than before.

His heartrate doesn't make alarming jumps and he never tells Derek to stop, not even when Derek digs his claws into the pale, vulnerable flesh of his stomach above his navel as he draws the second leg of the Triskelion.

He has to wipe away Stiles' blood before he works on the last leg. He distantly wonders if Stiles will need a blood transfusion by the end of the week.

He constantly scrutinizes Stiles, wary of the signs of shock. He can taste susurrated tendrils of discomfort and pain wafting off of Stiles underneath the strong fragrence of his blood. He feels each breath of Stiles', the pace slower than he initially expected would Stiles could master. Stiles' breaths are mostly even, his eyes closed in concentration.

He doesn't spasm. He seems to retain control of his reactions in such a trained way that Derek has to resist tensing and cringing away.

Derek carefully wipes away the blood oozing from the newly formed Triskelion after the last leg has been carved. He reaches over Stiles, applying pressure to the purposefully created wound as he grasps the jar of salve. It's velvety smooth when he dips his fingers into the oddly aromatic ointment. He removes the handtowel and applies the ointment at the center of the Triskelion, spreading the cream outward to each leg. 

"Do you need this bound?"

Stiles' gaze is sharp, alert as he stares at Derek. "Yeah. Gauze and bindings are in the bathroom."

He's offered a terse, barely-there nod in response before Derek is moving away, footfalls silent as he strolls into the bathroom. Stiles is sitting up when Derek returns with gauze and clean bindings.

Derek stares Stiles down, unmoving and unrelenting as he waits for Stiles to relax his arms and scoot closer to the edge of the bed. He doesn't waste time asking questions. His hands are quick and precise when he binds the Triskelion and the five-scored lacerations.

As Derek moves away and rocks back onto his feet he removes his shirt, the movement fluid with ease as he straightens up. He glances at Stiles before leaning against the desk, hands braced near the tomes and a safe distance away from his sides.

His eyes track Stiles' form when he meanders toward the nightstand to pluck a piece of clear quartz from his makeshift pouch.

"I'm going to have to use fire. The mark won't take if I don't and we don't need to do this more than once. _I_ don't want to do this more than once. Once is more than enough. So, fire. No screw ups."

He searches Derek's face, staring blankly at the impassive brick wall of an expression plaster on Derek's face until he's offered a nod of assent.

"Okay," he breathes out slowly, nods to himself, "okay. Yeah, we can finish this." He makes lengthy steps toward Derek until he's standing infront of him. He focuses on Derek's face as he kneels, grabbing a pillow off of the bed and bracing it below his knees. He focuses on Derek's responsive gaze as he explains this side of the ritual.

"I'm going to press the quartz against your skin to cleanse it of any residual magick that could interfere with our ritual. I'm going to draw Nauthiz in my saliva before I use any fire." He grips the piece of quartz between his thumb and forefinger and holds it near Derek's left side, eyes still fixated on Derek's. 

Derek huffs quietly, impatience written in the faint furrow of his eyebrows. He scoots closer, pressing his left side against the quartz. Goosebumps scatter along his skin, scurrying higher in waves at the feel of cold stone in contrast to warm and pliant fingers. His abdominal muscles ripple with tension before relaxing on an exhale.

He ignores the discontent grunt he recieves for his action. "Don't rush me Derek." 

Stiles cups the quartz to Derek's skin, pressing his palm flat against the stone as his eyelids slip shut. His heartbeat ticks up before dropping into a relaxed trot, skin heating as the condensed runes kindle into a soft, etheral illumination.

Derek can feel the hum of magick resonate through Stiles' touch; it's not unpleasant when it warms his skin.

Stiles' eyes seem brighter, more vibrant when he removes the quartz, his gaze settled on the area of skin he had just been touching. He glances at Derek, features soft and calm with focused tranquility.

He swipes his tongue over his forefinger, tearing his gaze from Derek as he draws a vertical line. A slanted line that crosses over the middle of the vertical line follows, the high point at the left side and the lower point ending with the right side. He braces his hands on each side of Nauthiz, bracketing the shape before he looks at Derek.

He waits for a terse nod before activating one of his runes. He keeps his eyes on Derek as his saliva ignites. He tenses with Derek, pressing the sides of his hands against Derek's skin more firmly, the pressure harsh and anchoring.

Derek's jaw clicks with tension, teeth ground together. His back aches with the urge to bow back, to move away from the heat. He inhales sharply before cutting off his airway, holding his breath to avoid breathing in the scent of his own burning flesh.

His back tightens, spamsing under the stress as his body tries to heal. 

The fire licking at his skin isn't a new developement. It doesn't make it any less painful than the last time.

He focuses on Stiles' eyes, blotting out the pain and the memories licking at the corners of his mind. He ignores the thick feeling in the air and the burning in his lungs. 

He ignores the need to breathe until Stiles clasps his hands over the fire, extinguishing it with the delicate touch of his palms. 

Stiles isn't sure if he's relieved that Derek could keep his features composed thorought the ordeal, expression neutral and emotionally impassive. He knows how harrowing and excruciating fire is. 

He leans back, tossing the pillow back onto the bed as he watches Derek's skin darken, two black streaks making up Nauthiz forming as the skin slowly heals and knits together. He knows from his experience with Scott that it won't finish healing until dawn settles in.

He sighs softly, limbs heavy with fatigue as he uses the surface of the bed to haul himself into a standing position. He looks Derek over, checking for any signs of distress.

The Sourwolf is a fucking brick wall. Seriously, nothing. There is _nothing_ telling on his face. His eyebrows (of doom) are incredibly silent. It's a little concerning.

"It's up to belief now. We have to believe that it worked, that we manifested our anchors on each other. That we carry reason for humanity and control."

He glances at the window, drowsy and listless as he registers the dark sky shadowing the city. "Bedtime," he hesitates on his way to the bathroom, looking over his shoulder at Derek, "I don't care where you sleep. Has to be here, though."

He's not sure if he can muster up enough annoyance to regret saying it when he ends up sharing the motel bed and an itchy blankey with a broody werewolf. He's too tired to think of the consequences it'll produce in the morning when he's saturated in Derek's scent.


	25. Chapter 25

All Derek could hear were hitched breaths, sharp, fast and far too shallow to meet the demands of a body working off of rapidly declining reserves.

Black abyss overwhelmed his vision, not unlike the nights he would allow himself to plummet into instinct; nights he gave into the urge to search the grounds of Beacon Hills and restlessly pace the perimeter of his family's territory. The dense forests of Beacon Hills are often submerged in the deep, unavoidable ebony of night, the natural formations of the trees eclipsing even glimpses of moonlight in the deeper areas of the forest.

His sight is lost to him. Even as he shifts, Beta blue eyes searching the void depths even as the breaths turn into a scream that ricochets, gradually simmering into whispers of the strident outcry.

The thick thatch of hairs at the back of his neck slowly lift as goosebumps litter his flesh, traveling down his limbs in waves as Stiles' scream resounds in his head. The ghost of his voice whirls in his mind, echoing as the pitch wavers with wet clicks of teeth and the sounds of struggle. He can hear the creaking of a chair, the sharp sounds of metal grinding against metal, the cuffing of metal smacking against wood, limbs fighting and writhing against bonds, strangled and frustrated grunts of someone breathing too fast.

There's a tug at the corners of his mind where the screaming echos the longest just before the black gives way to a horrific scene: Stiles is bound to a wooden chair, thick rope securing his forearms and wrists to the arms of the chair. Zip ties restrain his knees and ankles, confining them to the legs of the chair where bolts have fused the wooden legs and the floor together. 

Stiles' left eye is swollen shut, purple and red bursts decorating his face. Crusted blood has dried down his mouth and chin, the blood still coagulating at his nose. His wrists are bruised, the colors stark against the pale white of his skin. Friction burn is biting at the thin skin of his wrists, specks of blood rising just underneath the worn skin.

There are welts on his chest, his shirt torn down the middle and sullied with sweat, debris and blood. Splotches of color in the form of fingerprints claw at Stiles' throat.

Involunatry, faint whines accompany the choked breaths stuttering passed Stiles' lips.

The way Stiles' chest lurches forward, the way he tightens with his entire body with each breath tells Derek that a portion of his ribs are bruised, if not fractured.

Though each breath sounded wet- could have been either the saliva or the blood dripping passed his swollen lips- his eyes were dry enough to know he hadn't cried recently.

He hadn't been taken to the edge of pain; anguish and terror hadnt been threaded through Stiles' mind. His stupid, stubborn will hasn't been cracked.

He could catch glimpses of movement at the corners of the room. Garbled voices wound through the room as Stiles struggled against the restraints, harsh and frustrated grunts bellowed through his parted lips with each fruitless jerk.

Things are a muddled blur, activity and color jumbling together before Stiles is kneeling on the floor, restraints cut away. A woman, presumably a hunter, is standing before him holding out a phone.

There's a catch of light at Stiles' neck, an unkempt bulky man holding him in place. 

It doesn't take long to figure that there's a blade at Stiles' throat, that the phone in the woman's hand is Stiles'. It doesn't take long to figure out that she's filming with the key feature being Stiles from the chest up.

"Maybe this will give your Alpha some incentive."

Before Stiles can answer, lips twisted with what must be an antagonistic and snarky remark, he's taking a header into the wooden floorboards. His shirt is shredded, cut away by undisturbed, combative hands weilding a blade that cuts through fabric like butter.

His stomach turns, hair rising when he hears the distinctive flare of someone turning on a blowtorch. 

Stiles is _human_. His body isn't as resilient as a werewolf. He doesn't have the advantage of enhanced healing abilities to spare him some leeway when he's hurt. 

It's so easy for these hunters- rogue to their culture's code, uninhabited and unrestrained by morals and ethics- to maim, kill and throw Stiles away without a thought to it.

He can see the sadistic glint edging toward bloodthirsty sociopath in the woman's eyes as the man-made flame meets the skin of Stiles' lower back.

He'll never forget the inhuman screaming that is torn from Stiles' throat as he thrashes, back arching as his limbs jerk frantically. His face his red, tears and sweat pouring down his face as the skin at his back rises in blisters before blackening and peeling away.

Stiles shouts until his voice gives out, hoarse and silent as he burries his face into the wooden boards. His fingers have left gouges in the wood, trails of blood deepening the color.

His distressed and agonized cries, his desperate pleading pierce through Derek scratching hysterically down to his marrow.

Stiles, someone so young and _human_ will fight until he's dead.

When Derek wakes his claws are extended. One hand is entombed in a pillow, nails raking through the faric into tuffs of cotton. The nails of his other hand bite into the skin of his palms, the flesh having given way some time ago. The pads of his fingers are wet with blood, the crevices between his fingers cold and tacky with coagulating blood. His teeth are partially embedded in the torn pillow, elongated canines gnashing against his lips. 

His heart is galloping in a harsh rhythm against his chest just as Stiles sharply stirs in his sleep. The thick scents of anxiety and pain overwhelming the room.

As snippets of images pass by an eerie familiarity settles over Stiles. The sight before him is simultaneously recognizable and foreign. He's seen pictures of the burned Hale house; he's been to the husk of a home after the obsessive vehemence of a sanguinary virago tainted the Hales' safe haven with her perfidious strategy of violation, corruption and assault through a chaotic combustion that swept away innocent lives in a cruel torrent of slow execution.

Kate's virulent prejudice deliberately condemned the Hales to an unexpected life that never should have been forced upon them, and now he's watching it happen directly in front of him. 

He watches as it permanently defiles Derek's home and slaughters his family.

He watches, helpless in his unheard and unseen form as the fire blazes around the Hale house. The home is swallowed by an inferno comparable to Hell with a personal soundtrack of frantic screams ravaging the silence of the night. 

The forest surrounding the Hale house is portentously still. 

It's as the screams reach higher octaves, the anguished howls deafening when the climax in their bellied crescendo in the song of death that a black Camero arrives.

He watches as Derek and Laura lurch from the car, Derek's legs staggering and nearly buckling underneath him before he jolts forward toward the house.

His vision clouds with smoke, the figures of Laura wrenching Derek back and wrestling him to the ground with a panicked, cracking shout hazy. 

He groans, the sound resounding from deep in his throat as his head pulsates and his hearing ticks up to painful volumes. His knees twitch before giving way.

His skin feels hypersensitive as he watches the two Hales quarrel before Derek sags, glimpses of his and Laura's Beta forms peeking through the space between them as they adjust and huddle together. 

He can hear their family's heartbeats fade as sirens sound in the distance. 

Anguished, ear-splitting howls resound from the Hales, their tear stained faces tipped toward the moon. He catches a glimpse of Laura's red irises befoe they force their shift back. Their sonorous yowls are still reverberating through the land, shaking leaves free from their grasps on outstreched branches and loosening the dirt when the fire department arrive, followed shortly by BHPD and the paramedics.

The siblings are unresponsive to the proddings of the paramedics, eyes glazed over and shaking as the keep firm grasps on one another.

Peering into Derek's memory is a twisted lesson in reality.

Stiles wakes with the heavy, stinging feeling of ghosts of tears from sleep and panic clawing savagely at his chest. His breaths are shallow and wheezing, the air thick like smoke. His heart is hammering a rapid and vigorous tattoo against the cage of his chest cavity, loss nearly tearing a choked off, wet sob from his throat with each breath. 

The pace of his breathing gradually evens out with each exhale.

He reluctantly glances at Derek, voice hoarse and grating as he speaks: "I think it worked, Derek."


	26. Chapter 26

Stiles might kill Scott.

Actually, Derek might rip Scott's throat out with his teeth and leave Stiles to cleave away at Scott's corpse until he's bored of defacing him and vandalizing the motel room with the carnage of Scott's viscera.

Whichever comes after Scott busting down the door directly after their little panic filled, awkward morning after wake up. 

Derek didn't even have time to glue that patented, menacing scowl on his face that screams 'serial murderer' to the mothers in grocery stores before Scott shot through the door with his eyes blazing red.

Stiles didn't even get to take his relieving morning piss before the supernatural shit hit the roof.

It was too damn early to deal with werewolves.

He points at Scott, deliberately not looking at Derek as he yanks himself free from the bed. "No," he jerks his hands, sharply flailing them when Scott opens his mouth, "no. Scott, _shut up_. We're not talking about this right now."

He stumbles on his way to the bathroom, snatches his toothbrush from atop the sink and turns on his heel to glare at Scott. " _You_ are in deep shit. Your plan _sucked_. What if we killed each other?" 

He glances at Derek who's settling into a brooding mode of little forest animal decimation proportions. 

He hears his jaw click more than he feels it before he turns on Scott again. "Gather Deaton and be prepared. Pack first, shit list later."

He waits until Scott leaves, hacking throaty interruptions when Scott stalls, before he focuses on Derek.

"Let's see it, big guy. Let's see that mark." 

He grins when he sees the vein at Derek's forehead throb. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

He was quick to scrabble at the binds swarthed around him. His nimble fingers snagged on hypoallergenic cloth as he unwound the strips with shaking phalanges.

The breath in his lungs seemed to thin before dissipating entirely when he caught sight of his skin beneath the binds.

He felt light, mind touched at the edges with downy, soft tingles and the faint buzzing he usually associates with vertigo. 

His tongue felt heavy and weighed down by something thick like mucus. His throat worked dryly, clicking twice as he swallowed; he could feel the cartilage of his Adam's apple jar beneath his skin. 

His fingertips stung as a warm, prickling sensation danced over his textured skin. Excited pings pranced down his fingers to his palm; it streched until it reached his wrist where it continued to swirl in sensations that sparked and aroused his nerves with its graceful plieas, twinkling dips and pivots back through the flow of his veins.

He shuddered through his breath when he finally filled his lungs, fingertips stalled just outside the patch of skin where Derek marked him with the Triskelion, as much of a mark of the Hales as the Hale creast to most packs.

The skin had calmed into three swirling, faintly raised silver lines, the edges of his skin just barely holding traces of flushed irritation.

He traced the edges of the Triskelion, cords of lean and compact muscle fluttering with tension at the responding sensitivity and the jolt of warm comfort entangled with the clutch of swirling emotions, chaotic in their hushed whispers as they caressed him beyond the feel of physical friction.

He could almost feel the presence of Derek's mind and the raw, powerful energy the older werewolf harbored centered in that small area of his own body.

He shivers, goosebumps breeding rapidly across his torso. 

He's hyperaware of how exposed his skin is to Derek, despite the adapted comfort he's worked to gain without the presence of his shirt.

Each sense narrows down until it's comparable to tunnel vision before his hearing snaps back into focus and his perspective shifts away from the shock fraying at his cognizance. 

It happens quickly, the abrupt effects of vertigo nearly causing him to stumble as he adjusts to the restoration of awareness.

It's between one second and the next that he's staring at the carpet without seeing the cheap, worn fibers before he's searching for the emblem of his rune based anchor replicated in Derek's skin.

It's _almost_ a heady thing to see the confident black lines swiped over Derek's skin, prominent and indubitable in their premanent presence on his body.

He can hear the low rumbling of Derek's voice and the hand at his shoulder- too warm to be human- steadying him as he reaches out for the smallest of touches. 

He wants to touch and trace the mark Nauthiz, just a little. It's like a compulsion, the need to feel his mark and inspect the tenderness of the new skin there.

He wants to know if Derek will feel the same jolts of warmth and a manifestation of his own mind radiating from that very spot.

He wonders if he'll feel it too, if he's the one to touch it. Maybe their marks will throb in time, trickles of their minds entwining with skin until they can hear each other's thoughts and feel the other's emotions.

He wonders if the bond will ever get that strong.

He wonders and wants to test because curiosity is entrenched in his most basic responses.

He wants until Derek shakes him hard enough to jar his head while his teeth click heavily against his tongue. He stumbles away quickly after that, one arm flailing irritably as his other hand cups his mouth.

"What the _fuck_?!"

Derek's glare is mild as far as the usual fixed vows of death drenched in strong, relentless inclinations of bodily threats that exudes from his variegated eyes garnished with flecks of pistachio green. The apopletic resentment usually reserved for him and foretoken of sparks that portend mutilation have yet to resonate through Derek's irises, so Stiles takes that as a positive progression.

It's mainly the normal apathy that casts a somber shadow over the terse planes of Derek's face that's shining through, at the moment.

Derek's eyes are unfaltering in their reminder of something wild, something raw and untamed. They're the embodiment of something natural and blunt. They remind Stiles of danger, the forest and all the memories that come with each word.

He looks every inch the fearsome predator. 

It's hypnotic, at times, to watch Derek move. The controlled power, the shifting muscles and quiet grace he's developed through intense labor out of self-preservation and necessity.

It sobers up reality with harsh efficiency and hallows out a piece of Stiles, knowing that Derek- only a few years older than himself and born with the lethal force to dispatch and annihilate many enemies- has been hunted and turned into prey most of his life. 

Derek's life has been one form of abuse and manipulation after the other, and still he stands with perseverance and a native, unsubdued power. 

Despite the spiraling, immortal hell he's dragged into he delivers sharp twists of intimidation and fear wringing through the bodies of those facing him.

Stiles isn't afraid of him, on most days.

"God, you're such an asshole! Is that- I'm _bleeding_ Derek. You made me bleed! Who the hell does that? It's not like I was going to shove you're pants down and have at you! I wasn't going to bite you're fucking hip and gnaw at your skin like Jeffery Dahmer."

The tilt to Derek's head and the inspecting flick of his glare is even more disturbing when Derek's half naked.

"Some blood does make it to your head after all."

"I-" he takes a half step toward Derek, shoulders angled forward, eyebrows creased with irritation, " _excuse me_ , scruffinator 2000, was that a joke? Should I be concerned for your health, because you seem to think that you have a sense of humor. Maybe I should call Cora and ask about some werewolf influenza that's going around."

"If I can last a night with you, I think I'll take my chances with the flu."

Stiles sputters, expression indignant as he turns around to rummage through his backpack for a shirt. "Apparently sass runs in your family. And, for the record, you didn't last a night. You slept through it. If you want a night with me, that'll cost you dinner first, baby."

He glances at Derek's shirt, hanging on the corner of the bed. He grasps the edges of the cool fabric and flings it at Derek.

"Put on your shirt before we go out. You don't need a public sexual indecency added to your list of past charges."

"I don't have female breasts; it's not public sexual indecency."

"I don't even want to know how you learned that, Derek. Maybe it'd be less disturbing if you didn't know the law."

There was a stretch of silence until Stiles looked up at Derek.

"Werewolves follow human laws too, Stiles."

Derek was out the door before Stiles could take his next breath.


	27. Chapter 27

Derek never left the building. He was, however, far enough for an uncomfortable knot to develope in Stiles' stomach. 

At first it felt similar to gas. His intestines had been loudly churning with the process of digestion; his diaphragm was tight after a bout of convulsions; a slippery sheen of what smelled more like stress sweat bubbled up from his skin.

Unease gave him palpitations.

As he's packing up, hands jerky and fingers moving too fast, he feels a compulsion to get out of the room and head toward the parking lot. He feels the familiar touch of tar at the edges of his conscious, a threat to slow him down if he doesn't hunker down somewhere and accomplish some basic, indispensable hours of sleep. 

Months of experience has made surviving off of a few hours of sleep a night easy, but weeks of it while injured and exhausting himself has never provided to be a good factor.

He knows his awareness will suffer soon. If he doesn't keep a tight reign on his control he will falter. His pack needs him to stay strong. Innocent lives, including his father's, are inadvertantly relying on him to stay vigilant and prepared.

He's nearing a thin line; his state could jeopardize his pack's lives. His insatiable need to prove Derek wrong and prove that his _human_ ass is not a liability could fuel a wrong move.

He can't overlook anything or let the madness of paranoia consume him. He must not let his emotions collapse the foundation of his observation. They can't risk tainted perspectives or emotionally impulsive, hotheaded pack members leading the pack in a time of crisis.

He needs to be alert, otherwise he'll befoul himself. The pack will be down two men if Scott sees fit to cut him out of the literal witch hunt.

With this gradually honed attentiveness he gathers the few bags he brought and walks out of the motel room with a quick, discreet glance at the parking lot. He avoids the tell tale Camero in favor of checking out of the motel.

The dark, glossy body of such a prestigeous car is hard to miss. It's brooding owner, hidden behind (illegally) tinted windows and donning a scowl that Hannibal Lector wouldn't eat, is even harder to skip over.

They say nothing to each other as Stiles waits by the trunk. When he lifts his hand in threat of tapping his fingers against the trunk- in annoyance and impatience- Derek pops the trunk. It takes less time to settle into his seat and slide the seatbelt on. 

The somber, restrained atmosphere has his muscles coiling and his movements oddly graceful in their concise, short motions.

Their travel to the combined pack is short, but seconds of silence feels like hours of staring at the slowly impending fall of a guillotine's dirty blade when you need to apologize to your partner.

"I know werewolves follow human laws."

Derek doesn't grunt. He doesn't acknowledge Stiles beyond lightening up on driving closely on the righthand side. He lays off of the gas little by little and they're finally following the traffic laws, which is more rare than not these days.

"Even if we do make our own interpretations of the law."

They're back to driving closer to the righthand side, narrowly missing taking out a few mirrors at a particularly sharp turn. Derek's lips have definitely twitched into a faint smirk before dipping down to engrave a stony scowl on his face.

"Jesus! Would you drive less like Scott after he got his license?! I'm not insinuating that you're some feral animal with an extensive criminal record- even if you are breaking at least three traffic laws! Seatbelt being one!"

He glares at Derek when the car comes to an abrupt, harsh hault. The gears groan slightly at the quick shift when Derek parks just as the car is coming to a standstill.

"Can you avoid killing me, at least until after we kill these damn witches and I have a chance to lose my virginity? I'm not dying in your car, still a virgin Derek."

He gets a bitch face and the famous Hale Eyebrow Arch from Hell.

Derek gets out of the car with more speed than a pissed off cat running away from a heavy spray of water. Stiles stumbles in his haste to follow.

He grips Derek's shoulder, ignoring the odd jolt of unrefined sensation as he tries to stop him or jerk him backward. His feet are still trying to catch up with him when Derek turns around with intimidating body language and a glare that would hurt if they were actually close. Instead, he feels it through the bond like a malignant affliction clasping tightly on the bond and spreading.

If they let the bond grow it would be enough to leave him winded.

"I'm sorry, okay? I didn't want to get you involved. We should have come in more informed, as a pack. We should have held a meeting between the pack. 

"I need your help right now, Derek. Then we can deal with _this_ -" he emphasizes with a wild, tight gesture between them, "afterwards. I need your cooperation before your anger. You can beat the shit out of me later."

"I'm not going to beat the shit out of you." If he were a more considerate person he might worry that Derek's eyes should be bulging out of his sockets with how hard he is scowling.

"You certainly wouldn't be able to, buddy." 

"Shut up, Stilinski."

"Back to the classics, Sourwolf. Feel like ripping my throat out with your teeth?" There's a taunting, challenging twitch to Derek's eyebrow.

"I have gorilla glue in my car, just for you." 

Stiles is about to retort, a fresh wave of blood warming him from the chest up when Scott calls out for them. Derek is the first to head inside. He's quick to respond. He's reliable and it would make him great as far as pack if it weren't specific to when he wants to be.

When Derek decides he's leaving there is no arguing. The lanes for the two-way street to communication and consent are shut down. He's stubborn.

Stiles is headstrong too. Their lanes have always been disaster areas litered with traffic cones and fracturing speed bumps.

When Stiles enters he ignores Scott's curious and concerned look. He settles into his role quickly and turns to Deaton. "The bodies were moved to the forest to feed the Windigo. It couldn't go into the city. Which means that there are bodies that were never found. Considering the stature of the Windigo, I'd say there were ten bodies consumed.

"It was not under a thrall. The Windigo must have died years ago. It stopped eating. The bodies piled up. Necromancy was used to manipulate the corpse as a weapon. These witches have dipped their hands in serious, malignant magick.

"I've read about hearts being used to keep living vessels young." He pauses to gnaw on his lip, chewing off the dead and chipped skin as he glances around the room. "I've also read about freshly stolen hearts being used in ceremonies by tainted clans to raise the dead.

"Some witches and sparks use ceremonies and divination to briefly converse with the dead. Those that seek more and diverge from the path turn to necromancy. I think they're trying to wake something."

Deaton's indifferent, tranquil expression shifts minutely. His features hold the hint of curiosity and knowledge. His voice is paced and even. "How many witches were there?"

It's Derek's voice that answers him, strong and sure. "Five. Two of them come and go, probably scouts and still new."

Deaton inclines his head as if to say "yes and no". "The others are a few centuries old. The two you're talking about are new in comparison. Their clan was once twenty strong, before others learned about some unsavory practices. There was a war, fueled by outrage after they practiced magick to transform a little girl into a vampire. Their numbers dwindled to less than ten and was no more than four after a decade of famine and plague. 

"They stole children and trained them. They manipulated those who showed promise. Most disappeared. There was another war, supernatural creatures and beings united together to decimate the clan. Their leader was killed, the others fled with the promise of wrath."

Deaton's eyes flint toward Stiles, his voice glazed with notes of certainty. "Curiously, it was the bloodline of a certain Spark that was responsible for the downfall of the clan."

Deaton looks to Scott and Emma, voice firm with warning. "These are not inexperienced witches. They will not be fooled by a bluff or dealt with simple tricks. They will smite you before you have the breath to reason with them.

"They are getting close to raising their clan. This is a time sensitive issue."

Emma looks overwhelmed, her pack stricken with distress. Issac is fidgeting, swallowing his nervousness with chosen alligence to Scott and their pack's sometimes ill fated courage. Their eyes are too big for their stomachs, for all they put on their plates.

There's rustles of fear and confusion, murmurs of needing a break when Stiles' phone beeps, once, twice, then pings again before falling silent.

He glances at the screen, relieved to see Lydia's contact as he pulls up the message archive. There's a photo attached, one glance at it sends tendrils of icy fear and searing ire spearing through the vulnerable points of his belly before racing up his spine. 

He wants to growl and spit bile at the mocking picture of his Dad, Lydia and Allison bound neatly near the Nemeton. He can see irritation swelling their red wrists and bruises littering their milky skin. Each have blood on their hands and spattered across their faces from their temples or noses. In their unconscious state their expressions are tense.

The text sent directly after reads: " _perhaps we'll raise the Hales as payment for your sacrifice._ "

There's no gaudy, overplayed threat to come alone if he wants his family and pack to live. It makes him all the more angry.

It sets off a paroxysm of harsh breaths. It's the beginnings of a panic attack, with the hot flashes, tight chest, seemingly constricting tracea. He can feel the violent palpitations beginning as panic and adrenaline kicks in.

He can see his skin glimmer and his runes reach out across his skin, flashing like a broken street light. 

He barely registers Derek reacting, confusion a vague conflict in his eyes as his own fingers shake before he looks intently to Stiles.

Stiles grips his phone tightly and shoves it at Scott when his best friend calmly approaches his side. He hardly hears the deep, throaty growl resonating from his Alpha as his blood rushes through his body, pounding with his heart beat.

He should have better control than this, especially after the bond. Each tiggery imagery and word after the other is bearing down and ripping at his control like a lethal predator.

He doesn't register hitting his knees, or the way his runes are swirling, hypnotic and dangerous in their sharp, swelling dance. He can't hear the low, feral growl he's emiting through clenched teeth even as his pack joins him. 

Derek's on the floor next to him, firmly gripping his face with clawed tipped fingers. He feels too warm, his grasp harsh even as their connection feeds dual strength and an anchor for control. It's like dunking his head in hot water and trapping his feet in the foundation of the ground. He can shakily stand.

He's filled to the brim with active, excited magick. The adrenaline is ebbing away, slowly. He's simultaneously exhausted and needs to act. His heart is slowly finding a healthy, stable rhythem as he concentrates on his and Derek's mingled breath. By the disturbance in the air between them he knows Derek's shifted in his Beta form, fangs descended and jaw locked.

Slowly sound filters back in. He dismisses the commotion in favor of focusing on the continuous low growl Derek exhales with each breath.

The repulsive smear of self-loathing and guilt churns his gut. He could have-

"Shut up, Stiles." Derek's voice is hoarse and guttural, he articulates Stiles' name sharply and emphasizes it by shaking Stiles' head.

He doesn't know if he wants to laugh or cry. Red splotches of mortification color his cheeks as he lets out a cracked laugh ending close to the note of a sour, dry sob. He grasps Derek's wrists and bows his head minutely.

He raises his gaze, fixated on Derek's mutual attention as they ride out the waves of fury and remorse. "We're going to strip them of their powers."


	28. Chapter 28

Stiles can hear murmurs at his left and a distance behind Derek. He knows they must have heard him; they're likely talking about whether his decision on wanting to bind the witches' power has any validity. Their voices are hardly above white noise.

In an ideal world Stiles would have the capability to charge into a war zone, no questions asked and no deliberating beforehand, to successfully rescue his pack members and eliminate the threat.

It's far from an ideal world.

He wants to maime the witches. He wants to rush in and crowd around his pack, feel their safety and health through his fingertips and palms as much as he needs a visual intake of taking their asses home intact and safely.

His jaw aches, gums and teeth burning with the desire to clamp around something and render it to tacky shreds. He can feel vibrations stirring the air, still unable to distinguish whether it's coming from him, Derek, or both of them. They're so close.

He can smell Derek's warm breath as much as he can feel it. It's grounding, the scent raw and so human. He doesn't smell of the woods or of mint. He knows Derek hasn't had the opportunity to brush his teeth and he can still catch the hints of morning breath in the air, dilluted as it may be. Perhaps Derek drank water to get the gunk out of his mouth before Stiles had gotten into the Camero that morning.

Still, there's something about his breath that's bringing Stiles back down from the high of rage. He'll blame it on the bond, because not even Lydia's morning breath would have grounded him two years ago.

As much as he wants to rush into the frontline, he's not an idiot. The clan has a reason for sending the messages. It's not unlikely that they're trying to lure the pack to them. The overall tone is mocking, an obvious display of power.

Regardless of what the pack tries to do, the clan is unconcerned. They need more history on this clan, but they're in debt to Father Time.

The clan is playing with the wolves, riling them up and treating them like prey.

Deaton had said that a Spark had caused the downfall of their clan. It's likely they'll need to sacrifice a Spark to raise their dead too. Perhaps the clan thinks so too.

He takes a deep breath, holding it for a pause of six seconds before shuddering through a slow exhale. He bows his head, barely managing the tilt with Derek's girp still on his jaw. His forehead must be a hair's breadth away from Derek's chin. He can feel the warmth of Derek's body, just as he had last night. He doesn't know if this feels more intimate because of their overall situation, or proximity in general.

The visibility of his runes is slowly receeding up his arms, disentangling themselves from his fingers.

He thinks back to the Nemeton, wondering if the witches chose a place of power to amplify their own potency.

His fingers curl as he flexes his gradually relaxing muscles. As his skin scrapes against the ground- a pain so faint he can't feel it- the murmurs grow louder and more distinct. The packs are fighting, Emma's pack pushing to eliminate the threat entirely through erradication and Scott veheminently arguing against taking lives.

He recalls the Nemeton's roots and wonders vaguely how he would bind the witches' powers. They'll tear through the binds if he strips their powers by unweaving some of their connections to magick and hiding it somewhere within their subconscious.

If he binds it to the Nemeton he gives more power back to the source of their own hell. The land will be thick and rich with magick. He'll be damning the entire town.

As he watches the last of the tendrils of his illuminated runes uncurl from his fingers that he feels the whisper of an idea hatching.

He lifts his head, holding eye contact with Derek before he briefly squeezes his wrists and pulls away with a private nod.

Derek's on his feet before him, his movements fluid and prompt.

"I don't know what I'm doing, but you should listen to me anyways."

The tension elevates from there.

★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★

The pack is usually partial toward his ideas, so it doesn't come as a shock to Stiles that it produced a negative reaction. Still, rude; he's their brains and they know it. He's saved their asses countless times.

He's only half cognizant when the witches bind him to the Nemeton in supine position. He feels the light breeze rolling through what used to be Hale property. He never asked Derek if the land was forefit or if it's still his property. He hopes he'll have a chance to ask him later.

As one of them rucks his shirt up he hopes the pack trusts him.

When they paint his abdomen in what smells unfavorably like blood he hopes he can trust himself.

When his father, Allison and Lydia huff a series of muffled cries he hopes what comes next won't put him on his nth term of bed rest this year.

The sun is still high in the sky when they begin to carve into his skin and murmur in gurgled tongues. The witches' shadows are longer when he finally blacks out.

Derek was much more careful about tearing into him. And isn't that a sick little thought to end the day on?

★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★

He feels them around the barriers of his subconcious. He doesn't know how they got into his head, but their prodding is unlike anything he's ever experienced.

He knows Derek can feel, if not see, the jist of what's happening, even with the distance between them. He hopes the witches can't follow the current of their bond. Derek's been fucked in the head more than even he could stomach to delve into.

He gets flickering images of men and women surrounded by distorted, unnatural lights. They're in a high roofed building of cobblestone with large, arched windows. Their eyes are terribly dank, the irises swallowed whole by far too dialated pupils.

There's carnage on the floor. Bits of children's cheeks skewered together in a row of decapitated heads decorating a table doused in coagulating blood.

There's a fire lining the edges of the room where women and the elderly burn alive. Through the fire he can barely make out that they're not exactly human.

★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★

He wakes choking on bile, the unmistakeable scent of burning flesh at the back of his throat for the second time that day.

His body _aches_. He struggles to roll his head, twisting his neck to spit out the bile congregating at the back of his throat. He's still surfacing to consciousness when his eyes land on an obiously aged skeleton.

He'll never forget the splotches of pigmented blemishes that formed on the skull just before sinew grew in small buds that expanded and bubbled as if excited to cover the expanse of something that hadn't felt the warmth of life in centuries.

When the eyes formed he recognized them from just moments before he had woken up.

For the first time in nearly a year, he trembles and hopes he has enough strength to endure.


End file.
